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Xovell’s International Series 


The Bishops’ Bible 


BY 

DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 


HENRY HERMANN 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

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Every work in this series is published by arrangement with the author. 


Issued Semi-Weekly. Annual Subscription, $30.00. April 25, 1890. 


BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE AUTHORS. 



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1. Miss Eton op Eton Court. By Katherine S. Macquoid 30 

2. Hartas Marturin. By H. F. Lester 50 

3. Tales of To-Day. By George R. Sims 30 

4. English Life Seen Through Yankee Eyes. By T. C. Crawford 50 

5. Penny Lancaster, Farmer. By Mrs. Bellamy 50 

6. Under False Pretences. By Adeline Sergeant.. 50 

7. In Exchange for a Soul. By Mary Linskill 30 

8. Guilderoy. By Ouida 30 

9. St. Cuthbert’s Tower. By Florence Warden 30 

10. Elizabeth Morley. By K. S. Macquoid 30 

11. Divorce; or Faithful and Unfaithful. By Margaret Lee.. 50 

12. Long Odds. By Hawley Smart 30 

13. On Circumstantial Evidence. By Florence Marryatt 30 

14. Miss Kate ; or Confessions of a Caretaker. By Rita 30 

15. A Vagabond Lover. By Rita. » 20 

16. The Search for Basil Lyndhurst. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 30 

17. The Wing of Azrael. By Mona Caird 30 

18. The Fog Princes. By F. Warden 30 

19. John Herring. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

20. The Fatal Phkyne. By F. C. Philips and C. J. Wills 30 

21. Harvest. By John Strange Winter 30 

22. Mehalah. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

23. A Troublesome Girl. By “The Duchess.” 30 

24. Derrick Vaughan, Novelist. By Edna Lyall 30 

25. Sophy Carmine. By John Strange Winter 30 

26. The Luck of the House. By Adeline Sergeant 30 

27. The Pennycomequicks. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

28. Jezebel’s Friends. By Dora Russell 30 

29. Comedy of a Country House. By Julian Sturgis 30 

30. The Piccadilly Puzzle. By Fergus Hume 30 

31. That Other Woman. By Annie Thomas 30 

32. The Curse of Carne’s Hold. By G. A. Henty 30 

33. Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill. By Tasma 30 

34. A Life Sentence. By Adeline Sergeant 30 

35. Kit Wwndham. By Frank Barrett 30 

36. The Tree of Knowledge. By G. M. Robins 30 

37. Roland Oliver. By Justin McCarthy 30 

38. Sheba. By Rita 30 

39. Sylvia Arden. By Oswald Crawfurd 30 

40. Young Mr. Ainslie’s Courtship. By F. C. Philips 30 

41. The Haute Noblesse. By George M anville Fenn 30 

42. Mount Eden. By Florence Marryatt 30 

43. Buttons. By John Strange Winter 30 

44. Nurse Revel’s Mistake. By Florence Warden 30 

45. Arminell. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

46. The Lament of Dives. By Walter Be sant . 30 

47. Mrs. Bob. By John Strange Winter 30 

48. Was Ever Woman in this Humor Wooed. By Chas. Gibbon 30 

49. The Mynns Mystery. By George Manville Fenn 30 

50. Hedri. By Helen Mathers 30 


CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OF COVER. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE 






THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE 


£ Souel 



D. CHRISTIE MURRAY and HENRY HERMAN 

n » 


AUTHORIZED EDITION 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

142 to 150 Worth Street 


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Copyright, 1890, 

By John W. Lovell Company. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


CHAPTER I. 

A smock-frocked yokel, seated on a doorstep before 
a house in the main street of Thorbury town, slept 
with his mouth wide open in the shadow on a dazzling 
summer day. A dog, of no determinable breed, lay 
opposite to him in the sunshine, yawning idly and lux- 
uriously at intervals. The two had the main street to 
themselves, and not another sign of life was visible any- 
where. The rustic was lank and lean, with pointed 
knees and a nose like a pen. He falsified the ex pede 
Herculem theory completely, for his feet would have 
carried Goliath of Gath, whilst the stockingless ankles 
which showed above his monstrous boots were of an 
astonishing tenuity. He had huge hands, browned 
with dirt and labor, depending from wrists so thin as to 
seem hardly able to carry them, and his shoulders were 
narrow and sloping, and seemed to shamble even in his 
sleep. 

He was curled up in a complete abandonment to 
slumber, resting his weight equally upon the door-jamb 
and the door, so that when the latter opened suddenly 
and without warning, he fell backwards, and a bulky 
ma,n hurrying from the house half trod upon him, stum- 


6 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


bled over him, and with difficulty saved himself from a 
headlong plunge into the roadway. The smock-f rocked 
man gave evidence of an unusual lung power, despite 
his narrow shoulders, and yelled as if he were being 
murdered, the breedless dog, excited by the suddenness 
of the incident, barked like mad, and a score of people 
ran to doors and windows. 

“ Get up, you groveller ! ” said the bulky man, hoist- 
ing the rustic with his foot. “ What d’ye mean by 
tumbling backwards into my house ? ” There was 
a thoroughly rustic egotism in the emphasis on the 
personal pronoun. Obviously the owner of the smock- 
frock might have tumbled backwards into the houses of 
any number of other people without the bulky man 
being in the least degree afflicted. 

“ I went to sleep, gaffer,” returned the yokel, gather- 
ing himself together, and rubbing at his trodden 
shoulder. 

“You went to sleep, did ye? ” retorted the owner of 
the house. He was a florid-complexioned, surly man, 
with a ponderous figure, and dressed in decent black. 
He wore a shining silk hat, too small for his big dog- 
matic head, and kept it in place by an almost unceas- 
ing series of gymnastic movements. He was clean- 
shaven, and wore high-standing collars and a satin stock. 
His face was full of a dogged and ill-conditioned reso- 
lution, and he glared at the unintentional intruder with 
an emphasis of disapproval which the other’s offence 
hardly seemed to call for. 

“Yes, Mr. Stringer,” said the yokel humbly, “I sat 
down to rest a bit, and it seems I must ha’ fell into a doze.” 

“ And I should like to know,” said Mr. Stringer, 
“ what call a honest young man — a honest young man, 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


7 


mind you, Jonah Wood; a young man as earns his 
livin’ fair and square — I should like to know what call 
such a young man has got to fall asleep at noontide, not 
havin’ risen from his nightly bed more than these six 
hours? Answer me that, Jonah Wood. Where did 
you spend last night ? ” 

Jonah Wood stooped to pick up his battered billy- 
cock hat, which lay between the other’s feet upon the 
upper doorstep. He stared into the crown of it as if in 
search of something there, and moved his big feet 
uneasily on the pavement. 

“ Wheer did you spend last night, Jonah?” Stringer 
asked again. The threatening nod with which he 
accompanied this query dislodged his hat, but he recov- 
ered it by a movement of the most brilliant dexterity, 
as if he practised a game of cup-and-ball reversed. 

“ In bed, gaffer,” answered Jonah, with a leering up- 
ward look, half fawning and half humorous. 

“ Some o’ the time,” said Stringer, “ doubtless. But 
the rest ? ” 

“ Why, wheer should I spend the rest, gaffer? ” Jonah 
demanded, with a display of innocence, altogether too 
transparent. 

“ Ah ! wheer, to be sure, Jonah ? ” cried the bulky 
man disdainfully, setting his hat at a score of dangerous 
angles as he nodded at the offender. “Wheer, to be 
sure, if not in the squire’s preserves ? ” 

“Theer it is, gaffer,” said Jonah, setting his hat upon 
his head and waving both hands abroad with an air of 
innocence gone desperate. “ Give a dog a bad name 
and hang him. What is theer in the market in the way 
o’ game at this here time o’ year, the very height o’ blaz- 
ing midsummer ? ” 


8 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


“ Young and well-grown birds,” answered Stringer. 
“ Now, let’s have no lies. Many’s the plantation you’ve 
helped to stock out of Mr. Marmaduke’s stores.” 

“Gaffer,” said the rustic, “it might go hard with 
thee, if I was to make thee prove thy words. I’ve had 
squire’s keepers watchin’ me this last five ’ear. If theer 
was anythin’ agen me d’ye think they wouldn’t ha’ 
nailed me long ago ? ” 

“ Niver you fear fer that, Jonah,” the other answered 
with an angry chuckle, “ they’ll find ya yet, and lay you 
by the heels. And listen to this, mv lad, if it’s needful 
for you to sleep in broad daylight on anybody’s door- 
step, choose somebodys else’s. I’ve a mind t’ inflict 
chastisement on ye now, an’ if ever I catch thee again 
I’ll do it. I might ha’ broke my neck over your clumsy 
body a minute back. March now, and let’s have no 
more words about it.” 

Jonah touched the billycock hat with one great finger 
in token of submission, and shambled off. The cur, 
who had looked on attentively with one ear cocked 
back, and one eye half closed, as if prepared, if need 
were, to give a philosophic and balanced judgment on 
the case, suddenly ceased to be interested, and went off 
on three legs after his master. 

During the whole of the colloquy, a prettyish, countri- 
fied girl, with pink cheeks and a pink dress which 
matched them pleasantly, had stood shrinking in the 
hall. She wore a straw hat and thread gloves, and car- 
ried a sunshade, and was evidently bound for out-of- 
doors. 

“ That chap,” said the sullen man, turning upon her 
as Jonah disappeared, “is just about ripe for the 
gallows,” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


9 


44 Yes, father,” said the prettyish girl in pink. 

44 He’ll come to a bad end, that chap will. You mark 
what I am saying.” 

44 Yes, father,” said the prettyish girl again. 

44 Now come along, and shut the door behind you,” 
said papa. 

u Yes, father,” the girl responded meekly for the 
third time. 

44 Things is coming to a nice pass in Thorbury,” 
Stringer grumbled as he rolled along the shaded pave- 
ment. He had a waddling gait, and his tight-buttoned 
black frock-coat showed an unusual development of the 
lumbar region. His hat raked at the strangest angles, 
and threatened momently to fall. He had the air of 
some preposterous water bird on land, and the hat was 
like a movable top-knot. “ It’s a country,” he growled, 
“wherein the very Church is rotten. The scarlet 
woman of Babylon is a-sittin’ on her seven hills in the 
very midst on us, and the Rector, as should be the faith- 
ful steward o’ the house, has unlocked the vestry, door 
and smuggled her into the church by the hinder way. 
D’ye hear what I am saying?” 

“ Yes, father.” 

The girl in pink was demure, and looked even a 
little depressed. She was at a time of life when it 
would have been easy to find themes more grateful to 
her fancy than the scarlet woman of Babylon afforded. 
A girl of about her own age went by, and exchanged a 
veiled glance with her. At that she sparkled into a 
merry and innocent smile, but instantly crushed her 
lips together, and, as swiftly as she could, banished the 
sunlight from her eyes. Mr. Stringer himself had never 
had any taste for innocent merriment, and did not care 


10 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


to tolerate it in his children. He had been wild in his 
youth, and had been brought into the fold of the 
Church by that strange combination of terror with the 
influence of a character in the main honest and loyal, 
which acts, or used to act, upon so many Englishmen. 
His own youth had been unguided, except by the cares 
of a widowed mother, and he thought the early dissipa- 
tions of that time were due wholly to the fact that no 
paternal hand, armed with a horsewhip, had been near 
him to keep him in the paths of propriety. He had a 
rooted sense of duty, and he was made of such material, 
and cast in such a mould, that duty was a something 
essentially unpleasant. Labor done with a light heart 
and for the love of it fulfilled no law of duty for Mr. 
Stringer. It took an inward rebellion of nature to 
make any act look dutiful. Since he had come to years 
of discretion he had given himself the full benefit of 
that bitter creed, and when he kept his children under 
and saw rigorously to it that their lives were as dull 
and joyless as they might be, he did no more by them 
than he did systematically by himself. The man was a 
mountain of harsh ignorance and prejudice, and was yet 
neither wholly unlovable nor outside the reach of admir- 
ation. He held but few ideas, but such as he had pos- 
sessed him heart and soul. He would have made an 
excellent Cromwellian or Covenanter, and would have 
fought against the gallants of England who struck for 
King Charles, or have taken arms against the bloody 
Claverhouse with a genuine enthusiasm. His gospel 
ran : “ If you would be good, be unhappy, or, at least, 

on no grounds venture to be happy. Keep things ugly, 
invent nothing, have no fancies, grind, grind, grind your 
heart, and strip your soul of every flower it grows,” 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


11 


His own soul grew none that he knew of, and so his 
incredible creed seemed easy to him, and therefore the 
less dutiful. 

“ I am going,” he said, “ to lift my hand in protest 
agen the goings on as has been practised this last month 
in Thorbury. You’ve got the scissors in your pocket, 
Mary ? ” 

“Yes, father.” The girl looked up timidly. “What 
am I to do with them ? ” 

“ You’ll know that when the time comes,” her father 
answered. “I’ve been turning this matter over i’ my 
mind ever since the first occasion as the thing was done, 
and at last I’ve lighted on my course.” 

They were out of the straggling main street of the 
little town by this time, and amongst the fields and 
hedgerows, which, in the full pride and splendor of 
their summer beauty, gave a flat denial to at least one 
prime article in Isaac Stringer’s creed. There are no 
landscape surprises in the green heart of England. 
The whole country lies placid and gentle like a sleeping 
child. Its beauties are all homely and domestic. Its 
streams flow idly, with scarcely a ripple on the surface, 
calm, uneventful, undisturbed, like the life which for 
the most part haunts their borders. Every here and 
there you may find a plunging weir with its bit of foam- 
ing backwater, just as every here and there you may find 
a domestic event out of the common in the lives of the 
slow-going people of the district. How old and how 
natural that comparison is between human life and 
flowing water ! 

Few people know the Church of All Angels at 
Thorbury, but I can find a ready-made picture of it for 
hundreds of thousands of pious pilgrims. That famous 


12 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


church at Stratford-on-Avon, where Shakespeare’s bones 
lie buried, is of the same, epoch and built in the same 
style. By Thorbury Churchyard a quiet brook runs, 
as the Avon by St. Michael’s. Rooks build in the elms 
which grow about the sacred building, and fill the air 
with ecclesiastical voices. God’s Acre is half paved 
with flat tombstones, lichen-covered, where the inscrip- 
tions are all grown or growing fast illegible. Other 
tombstones lean this way and that, and between the 
church and the lych-gate stands one railed monument, a 
huge, ungainly bit of stone, on which the names of many 
Boyers, lords of the manor, are engraved. The church 
is a quarter of a mile away from the village, and the 
rectory lies at an easy distance from it. 

The road on which Isaac Stringer led his daughter’s 
footsteps could bring them only to the church, unless, 
indeed, they were bound to Heydon Hay, five miles off, 
to Castle Barfield, five miles further still, or to any 
part of the wide and unknown world which lay beyond. 

“ Are we going to the church, father ? ” asked the 
girl. 

“You ask no question,” said Isaac in his dogged 
growl, “and then you’ll hear no lies. You wait and 
see. A still tongue makes a wise head, Mary.” 

He waddled heavily on until he reached the lych-gate, 
and, shouldering it ponderously aside, entered the 
churchyard. There were signs of labor there — scaffold 
poles, laid at the green border of the turf, and hewn 
stones, heaped in squares. He stood for a moment to 
stare at these with an eye of disapproval, and then, the 
door of the building being open, walked into the church, 
holding his hat by the brim, and stepping with a creak- 
ing deference. There were men at work in the interior 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


13 


of the building, and standing to look on at their labors 
was a dark, foreign-looking gentleman of about sixty; 
with a handsome face, a keen eye, and a quick smile. 
He saluted the new-comer with a slight nod, and the 
quick smile shone out for the benefit of the girl, but 
Stringer went by without a sign of recognition, though 
Mary dropped a countrified courtesy as she passed. 

Isaac led the way straight to the vestry, and his 
daughter, having entered behind him, closed the 
door. 

“ Here they be,” he said, advancing to a huge dresser 
of black old oak which filled one side of the chamber. 
He turned the hasp which secured its great folding 
doors, and threw them open. There, hanging in due 
order on their respective pegs, were a score of white 
surplices ranging from very short to very long. Stringer 
took hold of the nearest to his hand, and cast it upon 
the table which stood in the middle of the room. 

“Begin on that,” he said gruffly. “Fetch out your 
scissors, and unrip the seams.” 

At this command Mary’s pink cheeks went pale, and 
she looked at her father desolately. 

“ Do as I bid thee,” he said, with even an unaccus- 
tomed sternness. “ I tek the rights and wrongs of this 
on my own shoulders. As one of the churchwardens 
it’s my dewty to see as the worship is conducted, as all 
things ought to be done, decently and in order. I’m 
going to turn these Romish garments into harmless Irish 
linen. Tek out your scissors and unrip the seams.” 

The girl obeyed with trembling, and her shaky fin- 
gers boggled over the task. Isaac watched with an un- 
compromising eye, and when the first surplice was 
dismembered, threw a second on the table. She was 


14 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


just attacking this when the vestry door opened, and 
the foreign-looking gentleman appeared. 

“You are at work for the church, Miss Stringer? ” he 
said, with the merest trace of a French accent in his 
speech. “ Is anything wrong with the surplices ? I 
had thought they fitted very well.” 

“ What is a-being done,” said Isaac, “ is a-being done 
under my orders. I’m turning all this Papistry into 
plain longcloth, as can be an offence to no man.” 

“ But, my dear sir,” cried the other vehemently. 

“ I’m neither dear nor sir to you, sir,” Isaac retorted. 
“I’m churchwarden here, and you’re the horganist. 
You play your horgan, and I’ll see as the service o’ this 
church is gone on with as it ought to be.” 

“ But permit me,” said the foreign gentleman ; “ the 
surplices are the Rector’s private property. You have 
no right to lay a hand upon them without his express 
permission.” 

He was vehement for the moment, but a mere second 
later he was smiling and persuasive. 

“ Do you not think you are a little high-handed, Mr. 
Stringer ? W ould it not be better first to speak to Dr. 
Hay?” 

“ What have I got to speak to Dr. Hay about?” asked 
Stringer. “There’s naught in common, sir, between 
the Rev. Dr. Denis Hay and me. I’ve made up my 
mind to what my duty is, and I shall do it, be the 
consequences what they may.” 

The organist laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. 

“I shall have to tell Dr. Hay of this,” he said. 
“ That is my duty, evidently.” 

“In that case,” retorted Isaac, “you’d better do it. 
That’s a thing as I shall quarrel with no man for. Do 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


15 


your duty, sir, and I’ll do mine. Now, Mary, mek a 
hend of that second piece of idolatry, and look sharp 
about it.” 

Mary looked with eyes of tearful appeal at the 
foreigner, who laughed again with complete good- 
humor. 

“ Let us all do our duty,” he said lightly. “ You, my 
dear young lady, I assure you, shall not he held to 
blame.” 

“ I’m responsible,” said Isaac weightily. “ If I could 
ha’ trusted my own fingers to do it without needlessly 
hinjuring the stuff, I’d ha’ took the task upon myself.” 

“Quite so,” said the organist. “I understand. I 
am without authority, and I must leave you to your 
task while I do mine.” 

The girl’s tears fell on the white linen as she worked, 
and made heavy spur-edged blotches on it here and 
there. Isaac, with his arms folded, and with a listening 
attentive scowl upon his face, stood looking on. 


16 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


CHAPTER II. 

The brook which washed the border of Thorbury 
Churchyard was barely four and twenty feet at its 
widest. Its waters at this time were so translucent 
that in its stiller reaches the parti-colored pebbles at the 
bottom might have been counted easily by anybody who 
liked to spend his time in so idle and unprofitable an 
employment. It went winding hither and thither in a 
slow zigzag course through wide meadows, and on its 
banks alder and willow grew in such profusion that in 
many places the water was completely hidden from the 
fields. Nobody knew this fact better, or was more 
grateful for it than Mr. Frank Boyer, only son of the 
squire of the parish and lord of the manor, Mr. 
Marmaduke Boyer, of Thorbury Chase. Mr. Frank 
had passed just a quarter of a century in this tearful 
vale, and so far seemed but little subdued by his ex- 
periences. He was supposed to be studying for the 
bar, pro forma , and had a sort of nodding acquaintance- 
ship with Roman Law. He was a sturdy young man, 
of a wholesome and manly plainness of feature, em- 
browned by open air, as lean as a hound, as straight as 
an arrow, and as strong and healthy as a life of athletics 
and honest living could make him. In fine weather he 
had of late been spending a good deal of his time in 
paddling a canoe of his own construction about the brook, 
and he was familiar with its every lonely and sheltered 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


IT 


spot within half a dozen miles above and below the 
Chase. He was no lover of loneliness, and if he fre- 
quented the shaded and unpeopled watery spaces, he 
did it in a solitude a deux , being constantly on guard 
over the sacred and altogether charming person of Miss 
Ophelia Hay. 

Miss Ophelia Hay was the niece and ward of the 
Rector of Thorbury. Her father had, in his day, been a 
mighty Shakespearian scholar, and had collected as vast a 
heap of rubbish wherewith to obscure the calm statue 
of the bard as any of his fellow-laborers. He had 
written, with the most painstaking reverence, a score of 
pamphlets or thereabouts to elucidate the meaning of 
misprinted passages which a compositor of average in- 
telligence would have set right out of his own experi- 
ence in an instant, and had brought an astonishing 
learning and a still more astonishing dulness of poetic 
apprehension into so complete a fusion that half the 
erudite societies of Great Britain had grown to admire 
and reverence his name. In this happy task he had 
spent all his time and most of his moderate fortune. 
At his death he had bequeathed his collection to the 
nation, whose officials betrayed no eagerness to accept 
it or to find it house-room. It rotted and mildewed, 
therefore, in damp neglect in a dozen or two of great 
crates and packing cases, and almost the only evidence 
of the scholar’s love for his favorite poet survived in 
his daughter’s name. 

Ophelia was dark and mignonne and pretty. She was 
alternately arch and pensive, and Mr. Frank knew not 
in which mood to admire her most. She also paddled 
a canoe of his construction, and the two went gliding 
about the water of Wandshaugh Brook as inseparable 


18 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


as a pair of swans. Ophelia was seven months Frank’s 
senior, and from her superior height of age had been in 
the habit of looking down upon his boyish inexperience, 
until, in the natural course of things, she fell in love 
with him, and became at once impressed with the most 
perfect belief in his wisdom, courage, manliness, strength, 
beauty, and whatever else might best become a man. 
Long before that happy change of opinion came about, 
Frank had fallen in love with' her, and on the very day 
on which Churchwarden Stringer made his unprece- 
dented assault on the Papistical surplices, the two 
young people were coming to a spoken understanding. 
The girl looked charming, though perhaps at this time 
of day it may be just as well not to describe her cos- 
tume. If you will turn back the pages of Punch as far 
as the year ’54, you may find a fairly accurate repre- 
sentation of it, and if you should meet the prettiest 
girl of your acquaintanceship to-day attired in that an- 
tiquated style you well know you would be compelled 
to laughter. But the lover naturally knew nothing of 
the delightful costumes now in vogue, which in another 
five and twenty years may look to the full as absurd as 
exploded fashions now do, and Ophelia’s dress to his 
mind was a part of her, and became her infinitely. An 
eelskin siren in a crinoline age, a crinoline siren in an 
eelskin age, would look equally preposterous — a reflec- 
tion which would appear to lead to the appalling con- 
clusion that there is something necessarily absurd and 
grotesque in the most successful of the milliner’s 
inspirations. 

Frank thought but little of millinery, and a great 
deal of Ophelia. The two sat in their canoe side by 
side, with idle paddles stretched across both of the frail 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


19 


vessels, and drifted slowly, slowly, with the idle stream, 
sheltered from the chance of any observation by the 
friendly growth of the alder beds. Frank had one arm 
about Ophelia’s waist, and her head rested upon his 
shoulder. I am writing in summer weather, and it is 
delightful to think how many young people are engaged 
in like or similar fashion at this very hour. Blue 
heaven above, and blue heaven beneath, with only 
themselves and their fair reflections hung midway, they 
floated as if in air, as happy as the world could make 
them, as happy as the whole wide world could make 
them only once. They murmured one another’s names 
at times, but could find no other word to say. 

The friendly alders broke at last, and for fear of 
observing eyes they drifted apart, and paddled slowly 
down stream, the girl in front looking forward with 
dreaming eyes, and the young man in the rear admiring 
every line and motion of her supple form. At the 
boat-house, which stood at the foot of the rectory lawn, 
Frank sprang to land, fixed his own craft, and with 
unnecessary cares, which were none the less welcome 
for being needless, helped his sweetheart to follow. 

“ I shall tell the Rector at once,” he said, holding 
Ophelia’s hand in both his own, and looking down at 
her. 

She could not have admired him more if he had been 
going to face armies, although, in truth, her guardian 
was one of the mildest of created men. There was a 
farewell kiss, and Ophelia ran away to shut herself up 
in her own room, and await events in a happy, tremu- 
lous expectancy, and Frank marched up to the rectory 
intent upon his purpose. 

The Reverend Dr. Denis Hay sat in his study on the 


20 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


ground floor, with the French windows open to admit 
the fragrant summer air. A book lay on the table 
before him, and he, with his spectacles pushed up upon 
his forehead, sat staring abs 3nt-mindedly across it. He 
had the gray and inward-looking eye of the born dreamer, 
and a face of a singular delicacy and purity of color. 
His close-cut, snow-white hair, too stubborn for a part- 
ing, rayed about his head like a shorn halo. The ex- 
pression of his face was full of a mild, allowing humor, 
and even at his dreamiest his mouth smiled. 

Frank’s entrance awoke him from his fancies, what- 
ever they might be, and he turned his face to his guest 
with a look of accustomed welcome. 

“Well, Frank, my boy,” he said genially; “studying 
hard, as usual? ” 

“Not quite so hard as usual,” said Frank, who wore 
a look of sternest resolve, and might by his aspect have 
been about to encounter a regiment single-handed. “ I 
have something of the utmost importance to speak 
about. May I close the windows ? ” 

He waited for no leave in answer to this question, 
and when he had turned his back the Doctor, after a 
fashion he had, laughed without a sound, but made 
haste to resume a face of gravity before the young man 
turned. 

“ I shall be happy to advise or help you in any way,” 
he said. “ Sit down, my boy. What is it ? ” 

Frank disregarded his invitation, but leaning both 
brown hands upon the table opposite the Rector, looked 
down upon him, and blurted out his message in a 
phrase. 

“ I have asked Ophelia to marry me.” 

“ Oh ! ” said the Rector, “ you should have more 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


21 


respect for your neighbor’s nerves. A little diplomacy, 
a little round-aboutness, might have saved me some- 
thing of a shock.” 

At this instant there came a tap at the door, and the 
Rector, with a humorous eye on Frank, cried, “Come 
in.” A neat housemaid, in the crispest of cotton prints 
and the snowiest of caps, appeared in the doorway. 

“ Mr. Saint Sauveur wants to see you, sir, on very 
urgent business.” 

At this the Rector’s eye twinkled newly, and he 
looked at Frank again. 

“ Shall we defer our talk a moment ? ” he asked. 
“ Perhaps we had better finish it at once. Ask Mr. 
Saint Sauveur to wait,” he concluded, turning to the 
housemaid. “I shall be at liberty in a very little 
while.” 

The girl retired, closing the door behind her, and the 
Rector, taking off his glasses, polished them with an 
irritating air of commonplace. 

“ So,” he began after a while, “ you have asked Ophelia 
to marry you. May I ask when ? ” 

“ This morning,” Frank answered, still unduly re- 
solved and stern. 

“ That would be too precipitate,” the elder answered, 
“and, indeed, I think we are beyond the legal hour 
already.” 

He made a show of consulting his watch, and shook 
his head as he returned it to his pocket. 

“I don’t want to get married quite so hurriedly as 
that, sir,” said Frank. 

“A most unlover-like declaration,” said the Rector. 

“I spoke to her this morning,” the young man 
contiimed. 


22 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


44 And what said Ophelia? ” 

“She said ‘Yes,’ sir,” Frank answered, blushing 
fierily. 

“ She said 4 Yes,’ ” echoed the Rector. “ And in that 
case, my young friend, what becomes of my authority 
as her legal guardian? You have not consulted my 
dignity in this matter, Frank. You sink me to the 
level of an interested spectator. And now I will give 
you a piece of news as novel as your own. When 
Alexander the Great first encountered Diogenes — but 
perhaps you know the story ? ” 

44 1 rather think I have met an allusion to it some- 
where,” Frank answered, growing a little more at 
ease. 

“Nothing is more agreeable,” said the Rector, 44 than 
this interchange of novel thought and intelligence. Is 
your father as deep in your confidence as I am, Frank?” 

44 Not altogether,” the young man replied, “he will 
be in half an hour’s time. He guesses all about it, 
though, and was chaffing me about it last night at 
dinner.” 

“Very well,” said the Rector, rising and laying his 
hand on his companion’s shoulder, 44 if Ophelia says 
4 yes,’ and your father says 4 yes,’ there is nothing left 
for it but for me to say 4 yes ’ also, and to wish you God- 
speed and happiness, and that I do, my lad, with my 
heart. I have an official and a constituted right to be a 
bore on this occasion, a double right, as a clergyman 
and as a guardian. I let you off for the present, how- 
ever, for Saint Sauveur is kicking his heels outside, and 
will be impatient by this time. Wait a moment, until 
I am through with his business, and then you and I 
may walk up to the Chase together, and see your father. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


23 


My presence may help to soften the asperities of his 
humor.” 

With that he moved gauntly to the door — he was 
unusually tall, and his slender shoulders had an awk- 
ward stoop — and throwing it open, cried into the hall : 
“ Saint Sauveur ! This way. I am ready for you.” 

The organist entered, smiling, nodded to his Rector 
in a friendly and familiar fashion, and shook hands with 
Frank. 

“ What is it ? ” asked the Rector. 

“ Flat treason ! ” returned the organist ; “ sedition ! 
sacrilege ! ” 

“ So bad as that ? ” asked the old clergyman. “ Sit 
down. Expound.” 

“ I have been watching the reparations at the church,” 
the organist began as he seated himself, “ and as I stood 
there entered Mr. Stringer, accompanied by his daugh- 
ter. They walked straight into the vestry, and I, not 
dreaming of their fell purpose, made no attempt to bar 
their path. When, prompted by I know not what spirit 
of inquiry, I looked in at the vestry door, what think 
you these eyes beheld ? I will give you a year to guess 
in, and you shall not guess.” 

“Your offer seems reasonable,” said the Rector, “but 
I decline it. You may save time and tell me.” 

“ The girl,” pursued Saint Sauveur, “ was crying and 
trembling. She held a pair of scissors in her hand, and 
she was in the act of ripping up, under her father’s 
orders, one of the choir surplices. When I inquired 
the meaning of this, the father informed me that he was 
converting a Romish symbol into harmless longcloth, 
which could hurt nobody.” 

“ Upon my word,” cried Frank, “ that’s a pretty piece 
of insolence ! ” 


24 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


“ Dear me,” said the Rector, “ this must be seen to ! 
this must be seen to ! Stringer is a very dogged fellow. 
I am afraid we shall have trouble with him.” 

A moment later he smiled, as if he saw a humorous 
side to the situation. 

“It’s an inventive compromise,” he said. “ From his 
point of view it is ingenious. The frugal iconoclast ! ” 

He led the way into the hall, the others following, 
and taking up his hat there, went mildly out of the 
house. Three minutes’ easy walking brought him and 
his companions to the church, and there in the vestry 
stood Stringer, with his arms folded, and his big back 
against the black oak dresser. Little Mary, with the 
scissors in her hand, looked up with a pale and fright- 
ened face, still wet with tears, as the Rector entered. 

“ Goo on, my child,” said Isaac stolidly, “ and do the 
dewty as your father imposed upon you.” 

“ My dear Stringer,” said the mild Rector, advancing 
and taking up the half-dismembered garment then in 
hand. “ Really, Stringer, really ! ” 

This was rather severe for Dr. Hay, who conveyed a 
world of reproach and remonstrance in an aggrieved 
motion of the head as he spoke. 

“ It’s no use for thee to shake thy head at me, parson,” 
said Isaac, who looked, indeed, as if much stronger 
measures than that were needed to dissuade him from 
his purpose. “ I’ve abode over this for many weeks, 
and I know full well what the major part of the church 
folks think about it. I shall have the most of ’em o’ 
my side, and if I stood alone among a million it’d mek 
no difference. I should lift up my testimony agen this 
Romish papistry all the same.” 

“ My dear Stringer,” said the Rector, “ the things are 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


25 


absolutely harmless. There is nothing in the slightest 
degree Romish or Papistical about them. They have 
been worn in the choirs of the cathedrals of the English 
Church without exception almost from time imme- 
morial.” 

“ I’ve lived in Thorbury,” said Mr. Stringer, “ man 
and b’y, for nigh on sixty ’ear. It’s twenty sence I was 
first app’inted churchwarden, and until such time as 
you come here, Dr. Hay, these Papish practices was 
never known here.” 

“Now, you must know,” protested the Rector, as 
mild as ever, “ that in injuring the property of another 
you are committing an act which is, on the face of it, 
illegal. We are all bound to respect the law, and none 
of us has a right to take it into his own hands. It is 
your duty as a member of the church to accept the 
ruling of its authorities, and if you see anything you 
disapprove of, you may appeal to the bishop, by whose 
decision I shall certainly abide.” 

For sole answer, Isaac turned, opened the doors 
against which he leaned, took down a new surplice, and 
thrust it into his daughter’s unwilling arms. 

“ Goo on with that, Polly,” he said, “ while me and 
the parson has our talk out.” 

“ You’d better let me have that, Miss Stringer,” said 
Frank, interposing, and the girl, with a sense of moment- 
ary relief, permitted him to take it. 

“ I dunno,” Isaac growled, looking from one to 
another, “ as I’ve got any great right to be dissatisfied. 
I’ve lifted up my voice and spoke agen the prevailin’ 
iniquity, and so far I’ve done my duty.” 

“You’ve done a little stupid, unmeaning mischief, if 
that’s what you mean,” Frank answered hotly, “and if 


26 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


I were in the Rector’s plaoe I should be inclined to 
take a very different tone with you.” 

“You would, would you?” said Isaac; “and what 
might you ha’ done, if you’d been Rector?” 

“My dear boy,” said Dr. Hay, laying a hand on 
Frank’s arm, “don’t let us embitter controversy. I 
have no doubt, no doubt at all, that Mr. Stringer 
believes his objection to a surpliced choir to be a matter 
of conscience with him. I shall hope to have a talk 
with him, and to prove that it is nothing of the kind. 
He has acted under a misapprehension.” 

“You may talk, parson,” said Mr. Stringer, with a 
doggedness of voice and demeanor unusual even for 
him ; “ you may talk till you talk your head off, and 
you’ll mek no difference to me.” 

“ But suppose, my dear Stringer,” said the Rector, 
his lips twitching and his eye twinkling in spite of him, 
“suppose I should be able to prove to you that you 
have been mistaken.” 

“ That’s what you’ll niver do,” answered Isaac, with the 
emphasis of conviction. “ Not you, nor no man living.” 

The organist spoke in German, citing a famous pas- 
sage in the works of Schiller. “ My name is Stupidity. 
Shoot all the fiery arrows of your wit at me, and see if 
my dark belly cannot quench and hold them.” 

“ That is true enough,” the Rector answered smil- 
ingly in the same tongue. The churchwarden looked 
suspiciously from one to the other. 

“ Hast got a Papish organist, parson,” he said in 
stolid wrath and scorn ; “ a Papish organist as carries 
a Papish tongue in his head.” 

“The tongue of the Reformation, my good friend,” 
said Dr. Hay ; “ the mother tongue of Martin Luther.” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 27 

In respect of these matters Mr. Stringer was a Gallio. 
He cared for none of them. 

“Wearing these here Romish bedgowns,” he de- 
claimed sullenly, pointing to the linen burden the 
Rector had laid across his arm ; “ speaking in Romish 
tongues in the very vestry of the church, how do you 
expect a blessin’ to rest upon the building ? ” 

“ Haven’t you had almost enough of this ignorant 
folly, sir?” Frank answered, almost impatiently. 

“My dear boy,” said the Rector, “you hurt me far 
more than you help me. I beg you to be quiet.” 

“Very well, sir,” said Frank, but he glared at Isaac 
with so pronounced an expression of contemptuous 
anger that the surly old protestor would at once have 
made for him but for his sense of the reverence due to 
the sacredness of his surroundings. 

“ I’m not here to deal with you,” he said, choking 
his wrath deliberately ; “ you’re a himpudent young 
cockerel, Squire’s son as you be, and alius was, sence 
you was that high, and horsewhipped my son Joe. I’m 
no bit for brawling in a church. I’ve done my dewty, 
and I’ve said my say, and now, if you please, gentle- 
men, I’ll tek my leave.” 

With that he withdrew, not without a certain sort of 
dignity. To his own mind he came off victor, and, on 
the whole, was very much inclined to be satisfied with 
himself. The Rector stood thoughtfully stroking his 
clean-shaven cheeks with his finger-tips until the pink- 
clad figure of little Mary had disappeared. Then he 
looked at the organist, who was smiling broadly. 

“ Yes,” he said, in answer to the smile, “ it has its 
droll side, I allow that. But it is a little embarrassing 
too, and I hardly know how to meet it. I shall never 


28 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


shake that fellow’s opinion, you know. He is one of 
those people whose ideas grow underground. They 
are all root, and it is quite in vain to tug at them. You 
know, Frank, that the church was in a desolate condi- 
tion when I came. The first time I preached here there 
was a broom leaning against the altar railings. It got 
into my head, that broom, and spoiled my sermon. 
And then the choir — I can’t afford to buy Sunday 
coats for all of them, and half a dozen of the best are 
positively out at elbows. Stringer laid his plans 
well, too,” he went on, chuckling at his own embarrass- 
ment. “He chose Saturday for his work of destruction, 
and here are, at least, half a dozen surplices made away 
with. We shall have a mutilated choir to-morrow.” 

“ Denis,” said the organist, taking him by the hand, 
“you have the sweetest temper, the most truly philo- 
sophic mind.” 

“ My dear Ernest,” said the Rector, “ what is the 
good of being angry? And, besides that, my dear 
fellow, I can’t help seeing the fun of it, and the man 
from his own standpoint is, no doubt, quite right. How 
do I know how foolish some of my standpoints may 
seem to people who know better? Frank, my boy, 
we’ll go to the Chase together, and have a talk with 
your father.” 


P 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


29 


CHAPTER III. 

Frank’s love affair was not to be immediately dis- 
posed of, for just as the Rector laid his hand upon the 
vestry door, there arose a loud hubbub in the sacred 
building, and the workmen engaged there shouted 
to one another with excited voices. The Rector, Frank, 
and Saint Sauveur hurried into the church, to learn 
what might be the cause of so unwonted a disturbance, 
and there, in one of the side aisles, stood an Irish la- 
borer, with both hands outstretched cup-wise together, 
and in the bowl thus formed lay fully a hundred gold 
pieces of varying sizes. They were mingled with dust 
and cobweb and gritty fragments of time-blackened 
mortar. 

“What’s that? ’’cried Frank, who was the first to 
break through the group which surrounded the finder of 
the treasure-trove. 

“’Tis a fistful o’ gold^orr,” said the laborer, “and 
there’s more where it kem from.” 

The onlookers made way for the Rector, who, in his 
turn, began to question. 

“ Where did you find this ? ” 

“ Here,” said the laborer, making a lunge with his 
foot, “ beneath the ould gintleman that’s lyin’ there in 
the stone bedgown. Oi wint to scrape out the dirt wid 
me hands, and this is what I kem upon. There’s the 
bits of an ould wooden box that’s gone all to pieces.” 

The effigy of Sir Miles Gedford lay full length, in 


30 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


ruff and gown, with peaked stone beard, over that long 
departed worthy’s tomb. A great slab of crumpled 
stone, bearing the half-effaced inscription, had been 
taken out from the side of the plinth, revealing its dim 
and dusty inwards. The Rector called for a light, and 
one of the laborers, after intricate search, produced a 
solitary lucifer match from his waistcoat-pocket, and 
struck it upon his trousers. Then, falling upon his 
knees, he lit up for a moment with the flame of the burn- 
ing match the shadowed interior of the plinth, and there, 
scattered about the floor, were more gold coins of vary- 
ing sizes, and the fragments of a carved box which had 
evidently long ago fallen to pieces by the action of dry- 
rot. 

“ Sweep everything carefully out,” said the Rector, 
“ and let us see exactly what we have here.” 

So said, so done. The treasure-trove was carried into 
the vestry, and laid upon the table there, and the coins 
being counted and examined proved to be all of gold, 
and one hundred and seventy-three in number. Amongst 
them were one of the leopard coins of Edward the Black 
Prince, a noble and a half-noble of the third Edward, 
and three gold pennies of the third Henry. But the 
great majority of the coins were of the reigns of Henry 
the Seventh and Henry the Eighth, and it seemed pretty 
evident that the hoard had been hidden in the days when 

‘ ‘ Bluff Harry broke into the spence, 

And turned the cowls adrift.” 

In all, estimating the find by size and weight, the three 
examiners came to the conclusion that the intrinsic value 
of the gold was not less than three hundred and fifty 
pounds sterling. No one of them was learned with re- 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


31 


spect to old coins, and they could not tell what might 
be the real worth of the collection. Naturally, after the 
fashion of the ignorant in such matters, they over-esti- 
mated it prodigiously. 

“ And now,” cried Dr. Hay, laying his hands, palms 
downwards, on the pile of gold upon the vestry table ; 
“ now I see my way to the complete restoration of the 
church. I will write to Sir Walter to-night, and get 
him to come down as soon as his engagements will allow. 
We have talked of the plan already, and he will go to 
work with enthusiasm.” 

He beamed as he spoke, glancing from one of his com- 
panions to the other, and groping at the coins, lifted the 
greater number of them in a double handful, allowing 
them to trickle back again upon the table in a tinkling 
stream. 

“But what of the Crown rights, Denis?” asked 
Saint Sauveur. “ Does not all discovered treasure in 
England belong to the Crown ? ” 

“ The Crown rights ! ” cried the Rector, flushing ever 
so little, and almost trembling in his earnestness. 
“ What of the ecclesiastical rights ? What is the obvi- 
ous presumption here ? Who but an officer of the church 
could find time and opportunity to secrete this treasure ? 
No, sir. The money belonged to the church. It comes 
back to the church, and on the church it shall be ex- 
pended.” 

The old gentleman was beautifully excited. Ever 
since he had entered upon his duties at Thorbury it had 
been his dream to renovate the building, and to strip it 
of the ugly and clumsy additions which ignorant hands 
had set about it. He had held the rectorship of Thor- 
bury barely a year, but his old vicarage of Wandshaugh 


32 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


was but three miles away, and he had known the church 
these forty years, and had mourned over its condition 
as ardent ecclesiastics will in the like cases. 

He and Saint Sauveur sat down, pencil in hand, to 
classify and catalogue the coins. Frank’s interest in 
the trouvaille began to fade. It was a very interesting 
circumstance, no doubt, and for five or ten minutes had 
been exciting enough to put his own immediate personal 
affairs into the background. But now they began to 
reassert themselves, and speedily took up their natural 
place again. 

44 This task will take you some time, Dr. Hay,” he 
said, when he had waited awhile in growing impatience. 

44 Yes, my dear boy,” said the Vicar, looking up with 
absent-minded eyes ; 44 some time, no doubt.” 

44 In that case,” said Frank, 44 1 will go home alone.” 

44 By all means,” returned the Rector, scrutinizing a 
coin to find the date upon it, and quite evidently at- 
taching no meaning either to Frank’s words or his own. 
44 Do so by all means. Yes, yes. By all means.” 

Frank left the two elderly gentlemen to their task, 
and walked gayly towards the Chase, his mind full of 
the unapproachable perfections of Ophelia, as in the cir- 
cumstances it was bound to be. He thought of the line, 
44 The course of true love never did run smooth,” and 
laughed at it in merry triumph. His affairs were likely 
to run smooth enough. There was plenty of money on 
his side, there were youth, grace, health, wit and beauty 
on the other. Ophelia’s guardian had already approved 
the match, and he was as sure as he could be of anything 
in the world that his father would give it at least as 
warm a welcome. And, indeed, if it had not been for 
that affair of the surplices there is nothing more likely 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


33 


than that Marmaduke Boyer would have shaken his son 
by the hand on hearing his intelligence and have be- 
stowed upon him the paternal blessing. Even when Mr. 
Stringer was dismissed, Frank would not have come 
too late had it not been for that other affair of the 
treasure-trove. But as things happened he reached 
home just as his father was setting about a piece of jus- 
tice work with some yokel of the neighborhood, and had 
perforce to wait until that was over. Nothing short of 
the firing of the house would have seemed to justify 
to Mr. Boyer the interruption of his solemn function 
as a Justice of the Peace. 

So Frank waited, and in the interval a serious con- 
tretemps prepared itself. 

Dr. Hay and Saint Sauveur having completed their 
catalogue, the Rector took away the discovered gold in a 
loose bag of a chamois leather purse he carried, and be- 
taking himself to his own residence tied the treasure 

O 

up and sealed it with befitting gravity, and then stowed 
it away under .lock and key. Having done this he 
bethought himself again of Frank’s great news of the 
morning, and set out in pursuit of him to the Chase. 
He had not gone far upon the dusty country road, when 
a wrangle of voices at a little distance prepared him for 
a new excitement. Life in Thorbury went so slowly as 
a general thing that any one of the three events of the 
morning would have found matter for a month’s diges- 
tion in ordinary circumstances. To-day it seemed to 
rain adventure. The rector quickened his footsteps, 
and rounding a corner of the lane came upon four of 
his parishioners and one man in corduroy and velveteen 
who was a stranger to him. First amongst his parish- 
ioners was the village constable, in a tall glazed hat and 


34 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


a blue tight-buttoned coat with tails like those of the 
modern evening dress-coat. Next came the village sex- 
ton and bell-ringer, a red-faced man of pursy habit of 
body, who was objurgating the constable in terms quite 
unmeet for his Rector’s hearing. The third Thorbury 
man was Squire Boyer’s gamekeeper, and the fourth 
was Jonah Wood, on the collar of whose smock frock 
the village constable held a stern and masterful hand. 
Now Jonah was the son of Habakkuk, and Habakkuk 
was the village sexton. The father had but just met 
the son, ignominiously escorted by the two gamekeepers 
and the constable, and though he was a law-abiding 
man as a rule had been tempted to essay a rescue. 

The whole five were shouting together when the Rec- 
tor heaved in sight, but on his appearance the verbal 
storm was lulled with miraculous suddenness. 

“ What is the matter? ” he asked. 

“ The matter is, sir,” says Habakkuk, “ as this here 
thick-witted Collins — ” indicating the constable. 

“ Thick-witted yourself,” said the constable, in stately 
repartee. 

“I’m as innocent,” whined Jonah, “as the noo-born 
babe.” 

“ One at a time, please,” cried the Rector. “ Let me 
hear your story, Collins.” 

Collins, leaning upon his prisoner’s collar in the 
attitude sometimes adopted by orators who wish to look 
familiarly at ease before their audiences, set one foot a 
little before the other, touched the brim of his glazed 
hat, and unfolded his story. 

“This here person, sir,” said he, introducing the vel- 
veteen-clad stranger, “is a gamekeeper of my lord’s 
and lives at Hargate. He depose, sir, that he see the 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


35 


prisoner last night in my lord’s woods, but bein’ as there 
is a path through ’em as the country people is allowed 
to use, he do nothink but keep a heye upon him. He 
see him foolin’ round as if he was looking for some- 
thing very special, but no actual reason for laying ’ands 
upon him, though he have been suspected for a many 
years past. Then, this morning, between the hours of 
two and three, this gentleman catch sight of him down 
to Wandshaugh Spinney, just where the Squire’s woods 
and my lord's do meet, sir.” The gentleman this time 
indicated was the Squire’s gamekeeper. The Rector 
looked at him when he was alluded to, and the man 
nodded in assent and went on nodding at intervals 
until the constable’s story was concluded. “The pris- 
oner, sir,” the officer proceeded, “ was a-lying flat upon 
his back, a-making use of some kind of a curious call he 
have. What there is to it, sir, I cannot say, but it 
draw the young birds to him whether they will or no. 
He got three birds in that there basket ” — the Squire’s 
gamekeeper held up the basket in evidence — “ and 
there they are now, sir, if you'll be so good as look. 
The keeper makes a go for him, sir. The prisoner, as I 
understand it, rises and runs awhile, and then drops 
down upon his fickle hands and knees, so that the 
keeper he fly over him. Then the prisoner make a run 
for it, sir, and the gentleman as see him first in my 
lord’s wood happen to catch sight of him, and foller 
him for the best part of six mile, but not knowing that 
part of the country-side so hintimate, he loses him. 
They find him again in Thorbury at the Fox and 
Dogs this noontide, and they give him in charge, sir. 
We’re going before the Squire this minute.” 

“ Saving your presence, sir,” cried the sexton, “ all 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


36 

this is a pack o’ lies. I see the lad to bed myself, last 
night. I blowed out his candle, as I always have done 
this two-and-twenty ’ear. I was down first in the 
mornin’, the door was locked all right and proper, and 
when I went upstairs, sir, Jonah was sleepin’ in his bed, 
sir, as innocent as a babe.” 

“ I should think that,” said the Rector, lifting his 
mild brows and looking from one to the other of Jonah’s 
accusers, “ I should think that quite conclusive. The 
mere sight of a man in the dark — there was no moon 
last night — could hardly be allowed to go against evi- 
dence like that. Really, I think I should allow the 
matter to go no farther. You may ruin this young 
man’s prospects for life, you know. It would be a very 
serious thing, a very dreadful thing, for him, and if you 
are mistaken, as seems very probable, it would be even 
a more dreadful thing for yourselves, if, on your opinion, 
this unfortunate young man were wrongly convicted.” 

What might have been the weight of this argument 
without a certain illustrative and accompanying gesture 
would be hard to say, but when the Rector’s too-ready 
hand went groping in his pocket, the beginnings of the 
gamekeeper’s murmurs were hushed, and the sternness 
of the constable’s hold on Jonah's collar was relaxed a 
little. The Squire was the Squire, duty was duty, and 
poaching was one of the deadliest of offences. Each 
one of these propositions was as undeniable as the 
other, but the Rector was also a power in the land, was 
hand in glove with Mr. Marmaduke, and might, for 
purposes of profit, be quite conscientiously accepted as 
his locum tenens in this matter. Besides that, game- 
keepers and constables were alike certain that Jonah 
would fall into their hands again one of these days, and 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


37 


to have sent him to prison would have robbed them for 
a considerable time of their choicest diet of excitement. 
A little regret had already mingled with their triumph 
as they had seized him. 

44 I have not much loose silver,” said the Rector. 
“Divide that amongst you; and I trust, Wood, that 
you will allow this to be a lesson to you.” 

This was hardly logical, but nobody was disposed to 
criticise. Jonah went his way — a saved yokel — and 
his late captors accompanied him in amity, and even 
went so far as to pay for beer for him at the first public- 
house arrived at. Dr. Denis Hay, little guessing what 
sort of explosive mine he had been laying, went on to 
the Chase, and in the innocence of his heart told the 
story of Jonah to the Squire. 

If there was ever a more peppery man in the world 
than Marmaduke Boyer, he must have been both dan- 
gerous and a nuisance. People used to say of Boyer 
that a better fellow never broke bread, but — , which 
expressed a great deal. 

He was tall and handsome, but as red as a ferret, and 
the very baldness of his high forehead had something 
angry in its aspect. 

44 What ? ” roared the Squire, “ you’ve paid the con- 
stable to free that fellow ! Why, what the — ” 

44 Really, Boyer, really,” said the mild Rector. 

“You’re a meddling, stupid ass,” cried Boyer, with 
more and much more, to the same effect. 44 I’ve been 
hungering for that scoundrel’s blood this five years. 
And now we get hold of him, and by gad, sir ” — 

44 But really, Boyer, really ! ” said the Rector. 

Somehow, in the course of the interview, there was 
no mention of Frank and Ophelia, and the adage the 


38 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


poor young gentleman had smiled at that morning 
looked as if it might be susceptible of fulfilment even in 
his case. But the misunderstanding between the Squire 
and the Rector had graver results than even the rough- 
ening of the way of courtship, as shall presently appear. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


39 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Squire of Thorbury was an excellent fellow in 
his way, but of a temperament curiously brittle. He 
had one of the kindest hearts in the world, and would 
at almost any time have gone five miles out of his way 
to do a kindness, and twenty to avoid doing an injury. 
But this sweetness of nature in him was often quite 
flatly contradicted. He would take a prejudice in a 
second, and the fancy would grow incorporate with his 
blood, so that it took years to wear it out of him. In 
person he was big and handsome, and his florid face and 
blue eyes beamed with good nature when they did not 
happen to be glooming with a sense of affront or blaz- 
ing with anger. His hair, whiskers, and eyebrows were 
of a foxy reddish brown, and the backs of his hands 
were covered with a fell of the same tinge. People 
who knew him were careful of treading on his corns, 
and the general impression of quiet folks was that he 
was a dangerous sort of man to know. 

Mr. Boyer took a particular pride in the fact that he 
was English, and had a wholesome and befitting con- 
tempt for all things and people of foreign growth. 
Being English, he respected the Church, and his feeling 
for the cloth had hitherto kept him — choleric as he 
was — from assailing the Rector. But the waters of 
bitterness being once let loose, flowed freely, and rapidly 
submerged many old landmarks. The history of the 
damaged surplices naturally went through the parishes 


40 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


of Thorbury with something of an electric swiftness, 
and with equal naturalness, excited something of an 
electric disturbance. Cloud met cloud — it would be 
difficult to find a better simile — with prodigious noises. 
Stringer had his hosts where Dr. Hay had but a hand- 
ful, but the devoted few made as much noise as the 
indignant many, and the world in those parts seemed 
shaken to its foundations. The Squire took sides after 
the headstrong and passionate fashion which came 
natural to him, and the general hurly-burly was audible 
in neighboring villages. The mild Rector looked on 
in considerable amazement, and sometimes found his 
sense of humor inadequate to the occasion. 

The thing that really embittered the Squire was this : 
a brother magistrate had committed Jonah for trial, and 
a jury of Jonah’s countrymen had acquitted him. It 
was never to be supposed that Dr. Hay’s action in that 
matter could be accepted as final, and Boyer’s first 
move, when his rage was over, was to order the re- 
arrest of the delinquent. Of course he was instantly 
obeyed, but the two gamekeepers had broken bread 
and eaten salt, so to speak, with the Rector, and they 
gave their evidence reluctantly. The languid young 
counsel to whom the judge had entrusted poor Jonah’s 
destinies brightened at the signs, and bullied and 
badgered them to such excellent effect that their 
evidence became a tissue of uncertainty and evasion. 
The accused was acquitted, and Boyer was as certain 
of the man’s guilt as he was of his own existence. He 
was fit to eat the Rector on the day of the trial, and, in 
the course of an interview with him, in the which Dr. 
Hay in vain essayed the soft answer which only turns 
away wrath with the reasonable, he cast off and repudi- 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


41 


atecl him and liis forever, and swore a feud as bitter as 
that which McPhairson recorded against the Clan 
MacTavish. 

In these mournful days Frank and Ophelia held 
stolen, secret meetings, and vowed undying fidelity to 
each other, and promised faith and patience, and felt 
that they were acting in a drama of the most harrowing 
interest, as, indeed, to themselves they were. And, 
though they never found it out till years afterwards, 
the pretty little fair-weather love they had started with 
took root in the storm, and struck deep, and made a 
happy man and woman in the end, as shall in due 
course appear. 

The battle between Church and State — for to Thor- 
bury it meant no less than that — was full of the most 
delightful matter (for an onlooker), and brought out 
human nature in all its phases — the humorous, the 
stupid, the crass, the pathetic, the indignant, and one 
knows not what. 

“Til fight this here matter out,” said Stringer, ‘(and 
I’ll fight it to the bitter hend. Nobody iver altered my 
opinion, and nobody iver wool.” 

In that excellent state of mind he lived until his 
time came, as proud of his impenetrable pig-headedness 
as a young mother of her baby, and publishing it every- 
where noisily, as if it had been a gift of genius and a 
virtue. 

Jonah naturally took the Rector’s side, but with an 
economic reservation. 

“What I look at,” he said, “is the rewination on it. 
It’ll tek a little forchin to find soap an’ starch for all 
them theer white bedgowns.” 

Inwardly, perhaps, he bemoaned himself, asking why 


42 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


these things were not sold, and the money given to the 
poor. But he knew to whom he owed his liberty, and 
gratitude kept him silent. Apart from that he was not 
merely a martyr to suspicion, but the son of the sexton 
and bell-ringer, and in that double capacity was 
occasionally permitted to visit the Rector’s kitchen, to 
revel on broken meats there, and to taste the table beer. 
Discretion not less than gratitude sealed his lips. 

Mr. Stringer was at table a day or two after Jonah’s 
acquittal, and the weekly paper was propped up before 
him on the cruet-stand. He knew the news already, 
but it fed his mood to read it, and he was certain that 
not only in ecclesiastical but in social matters the 
Rector was hurrying the parish to the very mischief. 
He felt sapient and wise beyond his common use, for 
had not he himself, on the very morning of the 
poacher’s arrest, prophesied that fate for him, and 
divined the methods by which he had contrived to pass 
the night? 

Mr. Stringer sat at the head of the table, and on one 
side sat Mary his daughter, and on the other Joseph 
his son. Joseph was a good-looking hobbledehoy of 
about three-and-twenty, with an expression of settled 
injury and discontent. The father sat staring at his 
newspaper, and solidly masticating a morsel of steak, 
holding another at his lips upon the tip of his fork in 
readiness for use. Whenever the young man caught 
his sister’s eye he wagged his head up and down with a 
derisive motion, and drew his nose and lips into an 
expression of weary cynicism as profound as he could 
command. By and by he began to beat a tattoo upon 
his plate with a table-knife. Isaac opened his mouth 
for the reserved morsel, but before closing on it 
addressed his son. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 43 

“Put that knife down, sir. And don’t make them 
hirritating nyses.” 

“All right,” said Joseph, with fatigued disdain, 
laying the knife upon the table. Isaac looked at him 
severely, lowered his fork, raised it again, took off the 
morsel of steak, and chewed with the sternest reproba- 
tion. “ Oh, I’m sick ! ” said Joseph, sulkily returning 
his father’s stare. “ Do you think I’m going to be a 
kid for ever ? Why can’t a man go about his business 
when he’s eat his victuals ? What do I want to stop 
here for ? ” 

“You want to stop here,” said his father, chewing 
and scowling doggedly, “because you’re told to stop 
here. You sit where you are till the ’ed of the table 
gives you leave to rise.” 

“All right ! ” returned Joseph as before. 

“ Children,” said Isaac, striking the table with his 
knife-hands to emphasize the quotation, “obey your 
parents.” 

“ Parents,” retorted Joseph, in a murmur only half 
audible, “ provoke not your children to wroth.” 

Mr. Stringer saw fit to ignore this, and went back to 
his steak and his newspaper. The little girl sat and 
trembled. Such scenes as this had been growing fre- 
quent of late, and she lived in constant dread of an ex- 
plosion. A disturbed and ominous-seeming quiet fell 
upon the trio. The father ate with a prolonged and 
purposed slowness, and Joseph’s feet began to play tattoo 
upon the boarded floor. 

“Will you hush them unmeaning rows ?” the head 
of the house demanded. 

“ No ! ” said Joseph, bracing himself suddenly, and 
looking with a white face straight before him at the 


44 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


whitewashed wall which faced the window. Mary 
clasped her hands beneath the table and sat in a breath- 
less horror. The dreaded explosion had come at last. 
For a moment Stringer himself was paralyzed. 

“ Oh ! ” he said, and so sat with his mouth open. 
“ You won’t, won’t you? ” 

“ No, I won’t,” retorted Joseph, breathing stertorously, 
and looking out of window still. “I’m sick of be- 
ing treated like a kid. I’m sick of sitting at table hours 
and hours after I’ve done with my own victuals.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Mary, “ never more than twenty min- 
utes, Joe, dear.” She was afraid of the sound of her 
own voice a second later and wondered at her own 
temerity in raising it. 

“ Twenty minutes or twenty years,” said J oseph, “ it’s 
all one to me. I’m sick of it.” 

“Wait awhile,” papa broke in ponderously. “I’ll 
deal with thee in a minute or two.” 

“ I’ll deal with myself if this kind of thing goes on,” 
said Joseph, with an air of desperation. “I’ll chuck 
my self into Wandshaugh Brook, and write a letter to 
the papers telling ’em what I did it for.” 

“Joe!” cried Mary, finding voice again; and, rising 
from her place, she ran round the table, and there 
clipped the author of this dreadful threat by the neck, 
as if to prevent the instant fulfilment of his purpose. 
Joseph sat irresponsive as a gate-post, and swallowed to 
express his sense of injury. Papa, having recovered 
from his momentary shock, fed himself in a massive 
calm, keeping an eye upon his son. He had come, some- 
where in the course of his limited reading, on a disser- 
tation concerning the mysterious power of the human 
eye to quell rebellion, but Joseph annulled the charm by 
looking sedulously out of window. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


45 . 


“Til Wandshaugh Brook yon !” said Mr. Stringer, 
reaching for the beer jug. u /’ll write your letters for 
the papers ! Thee wait till I've done dinner ! ” 

“ You can save yourself all manner o’ trouble about 
me,” replied Joseph. “ I’m not going to stop here to 
be treated like a kid any longer. D’ye think it’s likely 
at my time o’ life ? Did y’ever put up with it your- 
self ? D’ye think as you’d have stood it for a week ? 
Not you ! Then why should I ? Let go my neck, Polly ! 
I’ll put an end to it. I’ll go and list for a soldier. I’ll 
go and fall agen a Savage Foe ! Don’t talk to me. My 
mind’s made up.” 

u Yis,” said papa, almost genially. “I’ll Savage Foe 
thee ! It’s a good five year, I should think, since I gi’en 
thee a dressin’. Wait till I’ve done dinner and I’ll 
tickle y’up, my lad.” 

“No,” returned Joseph, shaking his head with a 
mournful decision. “Not with my good will. I’m as 
good a man o’ my hands, though I say it, as is to be 
found for five mile round.” 

At this the father laid down his knife and fork and 
arose deliberately from the table. Joseph arose also, 
and the two faced each other, with Mary clasping her 
hands and weeping between them. 

“Oh, father, don’t. Oh, Joe dear, don’t.” 

“ Hush your prattle,” said Stringer sternly, addressing 
her. “As for you, Joseph, you can mek your mind up. 
straight away. You have treated me contumelious 
under my own roof, and you can tek the consequences 
which way you like. You can fend for yourself, my 
lad, and begin it to-day, or you can have the dressin’ I 
promised you. I’ll have no brawlin’ with them as I’m 
placed in authority over. The ch’ice is yourn, Joseph.” 


46 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


“ All right,” said Joseph. “ It’s easy made. I shall 
let no man living lay a hand o’ me so long as I can help 
it.” 

“ Very well,” replied his father. “ There’s the door.” 

“I’ll find my way through it in a minute,” Joseph 
answered, “but before I go I’ll take leave to speak a 
word. You’ve used me bitter cruel ever since I can re- 
member. I’m called ‘ Tiger ’ in the village to this very 
day because of the stripes I used to carry when I was a 
lad and went to bathe in Wandshaugh Brook. I’ve 
never had a likin’ for you as I should ha’ liked to have. 
I’ve took a longish time to make my mind up, and now 
I’m sorry as I haven’t spoken long ago. I think that’s 
about all.” 

“ Good,” said his father bitterly. “ Good, and good 
again. It’s no use to waste more time in talkin’. You 
can pack your traps and make a march of it as soon as 
you like, my lad.” 

“No traps for me,” responded the exile. “ You shall 
have my clothes as soon as I’m in uniform.” 

With that he marched through the doorway, and his 
sister, pursuing him into the narrow hall, laid hold upon 
him with renewed tears and beseechings. 

“ It’s no use, Polly,” said Joseph, standing doggedly 
to be embraced, and looking straight over her head. 
“ I’m past the time o’ life for the sort o’ treatment I get 
here. Theer, let me go. I’ll write to you from time to 
time, but as for him and me — we’re parted, and so 
much the better.” 

Isaac, slicing wrathfully at the remnant of his steak, 
heard this, and moved his head from side to side with a 
world of obstinacy in his looks. He heard the slam 
of the door as his son left the house, and a moment 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


47 


later he heard the door reopen and Mary’s voice calling 
into the open street. He arose anew at that, and march- 
ing to the front door, called the girl back. He was 
very well settled in his own opinions, and cared little 
for the judgments of other people on his actions, but it 
shook him a little to see Dr. Hay and his organist were 
the only onlookers at the scene of farewell which was 
being enacted in the roadway. 

“ Do you hear, Mary ? ” he cried ; “ come here this 
instant minute, or else tek your pick between that 
reprobate and me.” 

“ Dear me ! ” said the Rector. “ More quarrels ! 
more troubles ! ” 

The girl ran into the house crying, her father closed 
the door noisily behind her, and the exiled Joseph, not 
knowing what better to do, touched his hat to the par- 
son, and tried to look as if there were nothing the 
matter. 

“I — I am afraid,” said the Rector. “ I hope you 
have not seriously quarrelled with your father, Stringer.” 

“Why that’s past praying for, Dr. Hay,” responded 
Joseph. “ We’ve had a bit of a shindy. I’ve been ex- 
pecting it for years past, and now it’s here. There’s 
nobody less surprised than I am.” He had taken up, in 
his passage through the hall, a switch it was his habit 
to carry, and, after staring sheepishly about him for a 
moment, he fell to slapping his leg with it, and did his 
best to seem unconcerned and at his ease. “I’ll say 
good afternoon, Dr. Hay,” he added, looking up and 
turning on his heel. 

“Not so quick, my young friend; not so quick,” 
cried the Rector, laying a hand on the young man’s 
arm and detaining him. 


48 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“I’ve no doubt you mean kindly by your meddling, 
sir,” said Joseph respectfully; “ but there’s nothing to 
be done. My father’s not a man that can abide to have 
another man in the same parish with him, let alone in 
the same house. I believe if he’d had his way he’d ha’ 
kept me in petticoats till 1 was twenty. I mean him no 
kind of ill, and I dare say he means me none, but we’re 
best apart ; and we’re parted, and it’d be a real shame 
and pity to try to bring us together again. I’ll say 
good afternoon, sir. I’ve got a fifteen-mile walk afore 
me, and I should like to get it over pretty early.” 

“ Upon my word,” said Dr. Hay mournfully, “ we 
seem to live in the middle of dissensions. You must 
let me talk to your father, Stringer, and you must let 
me have a talk with you. Let me see you to-morrow, 
now. Promise to come to the Rectory to-morrow. 
Make your own time, but come to see me. You mustn’t 
quarrel with your father, Stringer. He is getting on in 
years, and in a little while he will be wanting you. It’s 
a sad thing to be left lonely in old age.” 

“No offence, sir,” returned Joseph, “but you’re the 
last man that’s likely to have weight with father. You 
might just as well keep your breath to cool your por- 
ridge. No offense, sir. It’s our country way of speak- 
ing, as you know, sir.” 

“ I’m afraid my influence is likely to be of little ser- 
vice,” said the Doctor, turning with his gaunt stoop 
towards the organist. “ Boyer could have done some- 
thing, but then Boyer is at loggerheads with me. Frank 
could have done something, but then Frank is at logger- 
heads with Stringer. It’s really very mournful. Really, 
it is extremely mournful.” 

“ What can’t be cured must be endured, sir,” said 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


49 


Joseph. “I’ll say good afternoon now, sir, if you’ll be 
so good as to allow me. I shall be pleased if you’ll give 
my respects to Mr. Frank. I mayn’t see him again for 
a little while, for I’m going into another part of the 
country.” 

“I wish you well, Stringer,” said the Rector. U I am 
sure I wish you well. But promise me one thing. Let 
me know your address, and when these unhappy dissen- 
sions have blown over, as they are sure to do, we must 
do our best to bring you and your father into friendship 
again. Come, now ; promise to let me know how you 
are doing and where you are.” 

“Well,” answered Joseph, “I don’t see any use in 
that, sir.” To his mind the Church and the Army were 
so far from being friends that he would have felt it a 
sort of insult to mention the one in presence of a repre- 
sentative of the other. “ Things ’ll come right in their 
own time, I dare say, sir ; and if they don’t, sir, why, 
they’ll stop as they are.” 

But Dr. Hay clung to him and got his promise at 
last, and Joseph marched off with outwardly staunch 
aspect. If he stopped and had an unobserved cry in a 
lonely meadow, that was nobody’s affair but his own; 
and on the whole, whatever other people might think of 
him, he felt that he was acting both with courage and 
discretion. 


50 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Rector of Thorbury was by no means a wealthy 
man, and he had a foolish unworldly knack of putting 
his hand in his pocket at any pitiful story which would 
have kept him in want of ready money if he had been a 
millionnaire. Since the beginning of the War of the 
Surplices the subscriptions of the Church Restoration 
Fund had fallen off wofully. They had never come in 
in a very vigorous fashion, and the Rev. Dr. Denis 
Hay had more than once had occasion to bemoan him- 
self with regard to his own enthusiasm. If things had 
been to do over again, he would assuredly have waited 
until he had had staff in hand. The treasure-trove came 
like a boon from Heaven, and when all the coins had 
been cleaned and assorted and catalogued, as well as 
his limited acquaintance with that sort of work would 
allow, he had put himself in communication with a cer- 
tain Mr. Edward Matlock, a noted numismatist, at that 
time carrying on business in London. Mr. Matlock 
wrote in reply, expressing his interest in the discovery, 
and his willingness either to appraise or purchase the 
find, but he delayed his promised visit for a month or 
two, and did not present himself until Jonah’s trial was 
over and done with, and Mr. Stringer’s small house- 
hold had grown smaller by one. 

When he came he proved to be a grave high-dried 
personage, rather like a rural dean to look at. He wore 
a white neckcloth, which, though not of the clerical pat- 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


51 


tern, helped out his clerical aspect, and in his right 
hand he balanced constantly between finger and thumb 
a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, as if he were beating 
time to the rhythm of unspoken cadences. 

He appraised the coins at their fair market value to 
the huge disappointment of the Rector, who had set an 
absurdly high, price upon them, but, being armed with a 
trade catalogue in which the latest rates of sale were 
duly set down, made his case clear at once. Dr. Hay 
took his check, Mr. Matlock took the coins, and the 
transaction was at a close. The trouble of the treasure- 
trove was not yet over, though of itself it might have 
been hardly worth relating. Yet but for it the history 
could never have turned out as it did, and the numis- 
matist, though he spent but three hours in Thorbury, 
all told, unconsciously left such an embroilment behind 
him as an English parish in this nineteenth century can 
but rarely have known. The actual like of it certainly 
never happened elsewhere, and the intensity of it would 
alone have made it remarkable apart from its strangeness. 

“ A lover of old things,” said the Rector, as he and 
his guest sat at luncheon together, “ might care to see, 
perhaps, what we are doing here. Our church is really 
an excellent specimen of its style, but it has been most 
ignorantty maltreated, and we are trying to restore it to 
something like its original condition.” 

Mr. Matlock expressed himself as being interested, 
and the two, accompanied by Saint Sauveur, who had 
his home at the Rectory, had luncheon there, and set off 
together. The lectern took the antiquary’s eye at once. 

“ Very noble,” he said, walking round it, and balanc- 
ing his glasses in his hand. “ Very rich. Genuine bit 
of old stuff, that. Very genuine. Undoubted. Quite 


52 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


excellent. Ah ! And the chain and padlock. There 
has been one of the old Bibles here.” 

“ We have it still,” the Rector answered, “ but it has 
fallen into decay. Perhaps I should rather say, dis- 
order. It is little more than a loose bundle of leaves, 
but we keep it carefully. It is printed on vellum, 
and ” — 

“ My dear sir ! ” cried the antiquary, “ you must 
allow me to see it. You must really allow me.” 

“ Certainly,” said the Rector, “ we keep it in the 
vestry here. I have gone over it, and, so far as I have 
observed, it is complete, so far as its pages go. It has 
suffered some dilapidation, and here and there a line or 
two has grown illegible. I think I have the key with me. 
Yes, here it is. You may see it at once.” 

“ On vellum ! ” said the numismatist, with very much 
the tone in which an enthusiastic amateur in wine pro- 
nounces the date of a rare old vintage he is asked to 
taste. 

Dr. Hay began to feel a new and unexpected pride 
in the presence of this old volume. He had hitherto 
had no more than an ignorant sentimental reverence 
for it. How many pious souls, thirsting for the truth, 
might have turned over its pages, and found for them- 
selves the light of liberty there in the old early days 
when only that faint beam of freedom twinkled 
alone ? Saints had bought with their blood the privi- 
lege to set that holy beacon in the Church’s midst, and 
its warmth had comforted many and many a simple 
saintly heart since then. It was in that thought that 
Denis Hay had valued the ragged old volume, and per- 
haps after all it was there that its true worth lay. But 
as the numismatist turned its pages over from the en- 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


53 


graved title-page to the colophon, and let off constant 
exclamations of delight, he began to have a new pride 
in it. 

“ I have no time for more than a cursory look at it,” 
said Matlock, “ but you have a real treasure here. 
There are perhaps two score copies on paper still extant, 
but on vellum ! — Here, sir, is a treasure-trove worth 
much more than that which has just changed hands — 
richer in interest, richer in rarity, richer in historical 
associations. Why, sir, I would give n^ ears to own 
this volume. This, sir, is called the Treacle Bible, be- 
cause of its substitution of the word treacle for the 
word balm in the text, which commonly reads ‘ Is there 
no balm in Gilead ? ’ It was printed for the Bishops in 
the year 1568, and is otherwise known as the Bishops’ 
Bible. A paper copy has its value, but a copy on vel- 
lum, my dear sir, on vellum ! ” — 

“ I had recognized its historic value,” said the Rector, 
in a sort of apology. “ I had always regarded it with a 
sort of reverence, and — and affection, if I may say so. 
But I had not known that” — 

The enthusiastic antiquary cut him short. 

“ If you were in a position to sell that book, sir, and 
I were in a position to buy it, I would give you seven 
hundred pounds for it as it stands — provided, of course, 
that there are no leaves missing.” 

“ Seven hunderd pound ? ” said a heavy voice be- 
hind the speaker. The three, turning, saw Mr. Isaac 
Stringer in the doorway, “ Do you know what you’re 
a-talking about ? ” he asked, advancing. 

“ I hope so, sir, I hope so,” returned Matlock, eying 
him up and down, and even putting on his gold-rimmed 
glasses to do it the more effectually. 


54 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


“ Seven hunderd pound for that here heap o’ crumpled 
ship-skin?” asked Isaac, pointing a solid forefinger at 
the volume, and returning the other’s glance with some- 
thing of disdaifh 

“ Precisely, sir,” said the antiquary, a little nettled 
by the other’s tone and manner. “ Seven hundred 
pounds. And the man who bought it at that price 
would have reason to be amply satisfied with his 
bargain.” 

The churchwarden, advancing a little further, fingered 
one or two of the pages with a doubtful hand, and shook 
his bullet head as if in condemnation of the verdict. 

“ A fool an’ his money are soon parted,” he said after 
a while, and then stood silent. 

“ I can give you the address of an excellent restorer,” 
said Matlock, turning away with a shrug of the shoul- 
ders, and addressing himself to Dr. Hay. “ It is a pity 
to have such a treasure in such a condition.” 

“ The book shall be restored by all means,” cried the 
Rector, with enthusiasm. “ By all means.” 

“ How many copies do you suppose to be in exist- 
ence ? ” asked the organist. 

“ That I can’t tell you,” Matlock answered ; “ but 
there are very few companions to this — very few in- 
deed. Reinemann will tell you. That’s the fellow to 
go to. Luitpold Reinemann, book-restorer and fac- 
simile^ 12, Cholmondeley Rents, Chancery Lane. If 
you’ll give me a pencil I’ll write down the address. 
Thank you. There you are. Luitpold — not* Leopold. 
He has gone into partnership with a Scotchman, one 
Mac Wraith. I have done business with both of them 
in my time, but if you want a really valuable reference 
write to Soames at the British Museum — Mr. Algernon 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


55 


Soames. Address him at the Library Department. 
That’ll find him. Here, I’ll give you his address as 
well. Beautiful old copy this is, to be sure. Look at 
the condition of the title-page.” 

He fondled the pages reverently, and Dr. Hay and the 
organist listened as he talked. Isaac listened also, and 
kept silence until the enthusiast turned the pages to the 
text in which appears the quaint reading which gives 
the edition its name. 

“ An odd reading,” he said ; “ I wonder how it came 
about? Treacle for balm? ” 

“ Didst never hear of treacle beer ? ” asked Isaac. 
“ There used to be a good deal on it made in old days. 
I’ve known my mother talk about it. It’s like enough 
they used treacle instead o’ barm, and that’s how the 
mistake came about, no doubt.” 

There was a general smile at this ingenious solution, 
and Stringer, himself, conscious of having untied a knot 
which puzzled his superiors in learning, looked well 
pleased. The mild cleric took the favorable moment. 

“ May I hope to have a friendly word with you by 
and by, Stringer? ” he asked. 

“Well,” said Isaac, “I don’t see the good of it. 
Better leave things as they be.” 

“ Why, man,” Saint SauVeur broke in, “ you seem to 
come here in a friendly way for once. Why not find a 
reason for being friendly altogether? ” 

“ I didn’t address you, sir,” returned Isaac. “Nor 
yet the Rector. I spoke to this gentleman, as, up to 
now. I’ve got no quarrel with.” 

The numismatist took another look at him, but said 
nothing, and Saint Sauveur and Dr. Hay exchanged a 
glance of humorous amusement as they turned. If 


56 


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they had guessed to what tragic issues Isaac’s presence 
there was going to lead them they would have worn 
more sober faces, but they were happily in the dark in 
that regard, and could still smile. 

“ I must catch my train,” said Matlock, looking at 
his watch. “ I should certainly have this seen to ” — 
laying his hand upon the book — “if it were in my 
charge.” 

“ I shall lose no time about it,” the Rector answered. 
“ I will write to-night.” 

A cab waited at the churchyard gates, and the expert 
was driven away towards the main-line railway station, 
five miles distant. The Rector and the organist shook 
hands with him as he departed, and Isaac lingered in 
the vestry, turning over the leaves of the Bishops’ 
Bible, and wondering if the account he had heard given 
of its value could be true. Anything which went out- 
side the sphere of his own knowledge was doubtful to 
him, unless he had heard it in his youth, when every- 
thing comes to all of us marked with the stamp of authen- 
ticity and prescription. He was more than half inclined 
to think the stranger a liar, and the Rector and the 
organist a pair of foolish dupes ; but after mature delib- 
eration he resolved to carry the question to the Chase 
and allow the Squire to adjudicate upon it. 

Since Isaac’s raid upon them, Dr. Hay had locked up 
his surplices, and only the authorized had access to the 
huge old cupboard in which they reposed. He cast a 
half-envious eye that way as he sat down upon the table, 
but, after all, he had done his duty there, had made his 
protest, and had every reason to be satisfied. He ex- 
pected his enemies to return, and prepared to receive 
them with the dignified surliness which, as he conceived, 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


57 


best became him in the circumstances. He had nothing 
in particular to think about, and his mind wandered 
hither and thither in his own interior crannies, carrying 
light into odd corners which had not been illuminated 
for years. He thought of his youth and of his court- 
ship and marriage, of his mother and the quarrel which 
had parted them. That brought Joseph to mind, and 
somehow the suggestion occurred to him that perhaps 
Joseph had had more right on his side than he himself 
had had. But this was not a reflection to be endured 
for a moment, and he put it away from himself 
resolutely. 

The vestry was stone-paved and cool in the hottest 
weather, and it held a sort of confined and cloistral air. 
Whether this had anything to do with Isaac’s moment- 
ary lowness of spirits can only be conjectured, but he be- 
gan to look forward with less than his usual complacency, 
and to foresee for himself an unpleasantly lonely and 
cold old age. He tried to shake this fancy off as he had 
shaken off the other, but it would not be dismissed. It 
settled down upon him, on the contrary, with a heavier 
and a heavier weight. The Scriptural phrase, “ Joseph 
is not,” got into his mind and troubled him. Mary would 
be getting married one of these days — that was only 
natural, though as yet there was no sign of it so far as 
he knew — and then he would be alone in the world. 
Nobody would have given him credit for these softened 
mournful musings as he sat swinging his legs on the 
table and staring at the black oak cupboard before him. 
His whole aspect was pugnacious, dogged, self-opinion- 
ated, as his life had been, and yet within doors he was 
feeling helpless, old, and lonely. It never occurred to 
him for an instant to bring Joseph home again, or to 


58 


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make home homely for the one child who remained to 
him. But none the less he felt the one loss and saw 
the other coming. 

Neither the Rector nor the organist came back again, 
and he had forgotten that he had been waiting for 
them. His original hope had been to strike a spark of 
anger out of one of them. Saint Sauveur had been 
generally ready of late days to give him his way in that 
respect, but he had never succeeded in angering Dr. 
Hay, which fact was a mortal trouble to him. He felt 
as if there were a tacit assumption of superiority con- 
cealed in it, as if it were not worth a cultured gentle- 
man’s while to lose temper in an affair with him. But 
for the time being he forgot that sorrow, and sat in a 
brown study, not being very clearly aware of what he 
was thinking about, but musing dimly, pretty much as 
an ox may, and yet, for all his dulness, not over-easy in 
his mind. 

He was roused from his dream by the noise made by 
the opening and closing of the door which led from the 
churchyard into the vestry, and, turning round with a 
sudden sullen hope of combat, faced Habakkuk Wood, 
the sexton. The old man pottered in with a bunch of 
great keys, which he hung upon a nail in the wall, 
keeping an eye sideway on the churchwarden in the 
meantime. 

“Afternoon, Wood,” said Isaac, with a sort of lordly 
condescension. 

Habakkuk nodded, but said nothing, and at this Mr. 
Stringer, who was in a mood to take umbrage at any- 
thing, spoke somewhat sharply. 

“ Did you hear as I passed the afternoon with you, 
Wood?” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


59 


“ I’m none so deaf as all that,” the sexton answered. 

“ Then,” demanded Isaac, “ why didn’t you return 
my salutation in a becomin’ manner, as befits your 
station ? ” 

“ This is a free country,” returned Habakkuk. “ At 
least, folks say so.” 

“ Oho ! ” said Stringer. “ You’re a-turning impident, 
are you? Now don’t you let me have any of your 
nonsense, or I’ll pretty quick find a way to cure you.” 

“ If you want to be civil spoke to,” said the sexton, 
“ be civil spoke yourself, gaffer.” 

“ Civil ! ” retorted the churchwarden, angrily. “ Why, 
I passed the hafternoon as affable as if you’d been my 
equil.” 

“ Maybe you did,” said the sexton, ambling towards 
the door by which he had entered, but turning his 
inflamed countenance and angry eye upon his interloc- 
utor. 

“Why, you’re doddering,” Stringer growled; “you’re 
losing your wits.” 

“ Ah ! ” snarled the old fellow, turning full upon him. 
“ Goo an’ be a backbiter. Do. Goo an’ take away a 
honest lad’s character. Talk about him up an’ down 
the parish, an’ mek a byword on him. Then call your- 
self a Christian, an’ set up to put the church to rights, 
and know better than the Rector.” 

“ You’re a-talkin’ about your son Jonah, I persoom?” 
said Mr. Stringer, with a lofty air. “ The man as teks 
his character away’ll do him a rare service.” 

“Who gi’en him the character he’s got?” cried 
Habakkuk, advancing a step or two. “ How’d you like 
me to trapse up an’ down the High Street, an’ in an’ out 
of all the bye-roads, to talk about your lad ? Look at 


60 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


home, gaffer! Let my Jonah be as bad as iver he wool, 
I’ve niver had to turn him out o’ doors yet.” The 
fierce old fellow shook both hands in the air before him. 
“ I was sexton here when you was born, an’ I can mind 
me o’ your younger days. Did you niver do a bit o’ 
poachin’ of a shiny night? Theer’s rare liars in Thor- 
bury else. Don’t you throw stones at my glass housen, 
gaffer, or maybe I shall put a bibble into a pane o’ 
yourn. Look after your own lad, and leave me to mine. 
Jonah ain’t the only wastrel i’ the parish, by your own 
showin’.” 

“ Do you dare to even up your brat with mine ? ” 
demanded the churchwarden, who was not in a humor 
to pick his phrases. 

“ Even him ?” retorted the sexton. “No. My lad’s 
snug an’ comfortable in his feyther’s house this minute. 
Hes niver done anythin’ disgracious as I’ve had to turn 
him out to tramp the world for.” 

“ Get out, ye pisonous-tongued old viper ! ” cried 
Isaac passionately. “ Speak to me again, and I’ll put 
you across my knee and break you.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Habakkuk, “ who’s a-brawlin’ in the 
gate o’ the Temple? You’re a pretty sample Christian, 
you are, gaffer. Turnin’ your own flesh and blood out 
into the street, an’ settin’ flock and shepherd by the 
ears, and tekin’ away deservin’ lads’ characters, an’ 
threatenin’ old age. You’re a picter, you are, tek my 
word for it.” 

“ Go your way,” returned Stringer, rising to a dull 
dignity, “and thank your years for whole bones. I’ll 
waste no more words upon you.” 

“That’s a mercy,” said the sexton. “You’d niver a 
good un yit, for man, woman, or child. You hadn’t 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


61 


one for the mother as bore you, for half a dozen years. 
You was born a crab-apple, an’ a crab-apple you’ll stick. 
Fit for naught but to set folks’ teeth on edge.” 

“Wood!” cried the churchwarden, solemnly, “you’re 
abusin’ your privileges. Tek care you don’t carry on so 
far as to mek me abuse mine. I’ll give you the best 
word you ever heard in your life. Go ! ” 

“I’ve said my say,” replied Habakkuk, “and the j’y 
o’ lookin’ at thee is none so great as I feel any call to 
stop for it.” 

With that Parthian shot he shambled out, slamming 
the door noisily behind him. Isaac looked at the door 
as if he still beheld the enemy, and in a while, taking 
up his shining silk hat from the table, began to brush 
it mechanically with his sleeve, growling and muttering 
meanwhile in deep anger. Then he fell back gradually 
into something like the brown study from which the 
sexton’s entrance had aroused him. But this time he 
was conscious of his own thoughts, and he scarcely 
found them agreeable companions. The banished 
Joseph was the chief figure in them, and, oddly enough, 
Joseph was pleading, and pleading with no shocking air 
of unreason, that he might, perhaps, have a little right 
on his side if he were regarded fairly. The plea was 
faint and half-hearted — the real Joseph would have put 
it, perhaps, in such a fashion as to seem offensive — but 
Isaac was not wholly indisposed to give ear to it. 
Perhaps — perhaps, when a young man has come to 
three-and-twenty he might have some legitimate ground 
of complaint at being treated constantly like a baby. 
Perhaps his sense of dignity might sometimes have 
revolted — not unnaturally. 

Isaac put on his hat and walked homewards, musing 


62 


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by the way. He was very silent at the tea-table, and 
he smoked his pipe and read his paper all the evening 
without a word till supper-time. But when the last 
meal of the day was over, and Mary came to give him 
her usual formal good-night kiss, he opened his lips. 

“ Good-night, my wench. I suppose you reckon on 
hearing from Joseph one of these near days ? ” 

“Yes, father.” 

“ You can let me have a look at his letter when he 
writes. Good-night.” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


68 


CHAPTER VI. 

It has become pretty evident already that this is a 
story of quarrel, and that almost everybody concerned 
in it is or will be at daggers-drawn with everybody else. 
A stranger visiting Thorbury would have thought it a 
home of perfect peace, and might, after staying in it for 
an hour or two, have left it under the belief that he had 
visited an English Arcadia. A more tranquil, peaceful 
place to look at it would be hard to find — a sleepier, 
less eventful-looking village. An air of repose brooded 
everywhere, and nowhere more notably than about the 
Chase, where Marmaduke Boyer lived in the house of 
his forefathers. The fine old Tudor mansion stood far 
removed from the country road, and overlooked its sur- 
rounding trees from the top of a gentle eminence. 
There was an old sun-dial on the lawn before the door, 
crumbled away from its ancient use and left to its 
natural decay, as if Time had ceased to be a thing of 
interest or moment. Half the pleasaunce about the 
house ran wild, though the trimmed half was smooth 
and orderly enough, and the lawn itself was a model of 
what a lawn should be — smooth as a billiard board, 
and like velvet to the tread. The house was in the 
very beauty of its sturdy age. A new house suggests 
labor, noise, and raw material ; but an old house no 
more brings these things to mind than the contempla- 
tion of a tree would do. Time has reconciled it to its 
place, and it looks indigenous to the landscape. 


64 


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Far away in the haze of an autumn evening the 
wood-clad hills of Breckley looked like a blue smoke. 
The sun was down already, the birds were settling, 
even thus early, into quiet, and deep peace and silence 
reigned over the whole country-side. Now and again 
the faintest sigh of wind would stir the leaves, as if the 
coming night were pensive, and full of a mild and 
gentle sadness. In the exquisite stillness which fol- 
lowed every one of these faint gusts an attentive ear 
might catch the placid babble of the brook which 
sounded like a voice murmuring in a dream. It ran 
through the grounds at no great distance from the 
house itself, and was spanned by two pretty little rustic 
bridges, which lent their own quota of charm to the 
landscape, and looked, as the house did, like a native 
part of it. Whilst all Nature was preparing for its 
nightly rest without, and the slowly darkening house 
grew to look more and more like the very birthplace 
and home of Rest, that peppery fox-colored Squire and 
his son were having a royal row within. It was the 
first they had ever had in their lives, for it takes 
two to make a quarrel, and until this evening Frank 
had resolutely refused to quarrel with his father, though 
the elder gentleman had by no means neglected to pro- 
vide him with opportunity. The lad had a sincere 
affection for his father, and a natural respect and rever- 
ence. If it had not been for his uncontrolled bursts of 
passion the Squire would have been all round an excel- 
lent fellow. His son admired his good qualities, and 
until now had always allowed the storm to blow as it 
pleased, and had never fretted it into unnatural wild- 
ness by opposition. 

The two had dined together rather silently, but with 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


65 


no hint of want of temper on either side, and then 
Master Frank had walked into the hall, and possessed 
himself of his hat, with intent to stroll down to the 
Rectory and contrive a meeting with Ophelia. The con- 
trivance was easy, for Ophelia always waited and watched 
at this hour at her own bedroom window, until her 
lover roamed in sight, and she would run out and meet 
him. The excellent Rector and his excellent wife were 
fully aware of this proceeding on the part of the young 
people, but they both believed and hoped with all their 
hearts that the Squire’s ill-temper would blow over, and 
they saw ne use in making the two young people un- 
happier than the temporary obstacle to their hopes was 
sure to make them. 

The Squire tapped the dining-room window as Frank 
appeared upon the lawn, and when his son turned in 
answer to this signal he beckoned him with a rather 
imperative wave of the hand. 

“ Where are you going ? ” he asked, as the young 
fellow re-entered the dining-room. 

“ Oh ! ” said Frank, practising the suppressio veri ; 
“ I’m going out for a stroll.” 

“And where do you intend that your stroll should 
lead you ? ” 

Now Frank had never told his father a lie in his life, 
and at five-and-twenty deceit is rather a difficult thing 
to begin. Like many other arts that of lying must be 
begun young and practised, or it rarely comes to 
anything. 

“ I’d rather you wouldn’t ask, sir,” he said. He had 
been wondering so long why the paternal storm had not 
broken, that at last he had ceased to believe that it was 
going to break at all. But now he knew that it was 


66 


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coming, and he braced himself for the first time to defy 
his father’s will. Not his father, nor any thing nor any 
man nor any combination of things and men should 
make him unfaithful to Ophelia for an hour. 

“Well, now,” said his father, quiet enough as yet 
upon the surface, “I’d rather you’d tell me, if you 
please.” 

“ If you insist, sir.” The young man made one pro- 
pitiatory effort before he obeyed. “You’re one of the 
most amiable men in the world, father, and you can’t 
nurse a grievance long.” This was a filial delusion of 
his, and was helped out by the general delusion that 
people with hasty tempers are easily forgiving and for- 
getful. “ I’d a great deal rather you hadn’t asked me 
until a certain little quarrel has blown over.” 

“I dare say,” said the Squire, “but I prefer to ask 
you now. Where were you going? ” 

“ I was going to meet Ophelia.” 

Then the storm burst with wind and deluge, and the 
young man bowed his head to it and said nothing for a 
while. But when the passionate man forbade him to 
speak to his sweetheart again, or to look at her on pain 
of his displeasure, he positively laughed, in a disdainful 
angry wonder, at the order. The Squire paused at the 
laugh. It seemed to strike him dumb. 

“ I’m sorry you think and feel like that, sir,” Frank 
said, in a rather tremulous voice. He had a good deal 
of his father in him, and it cost him something not to 
let the old gentleman see a copy of himself. “ I hope 
we’re not going to be ill friends about it, but I shall 
never alter. I thought you knew of what was going 
•on, and that you were contented.” 

“ You’re a liar ! ” stormed his father. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


67 


“No, I’m not, sir,” Frank answered. Mere abuse 
from his father never angered him. He was practised 
in it and knew what it was worth. “ You know I’m 
not, and you’d kick any other man who said I was.” 

“ To have my son marrying the niece of that infernal 
old canting Papistical meddler in other men’s affairs — ” 
cried Boyer, skipping from that false standpoint. 

“ I’m very* sorry, sir,” said Frank, when he could get 
a word in edgewise. “ I’m very sorry that you take it 
in this way. I have asked Ophelia to marry me, and 
she has promised. I had asked Dr. Hay’s consent on 
the very day on which you had a row with him about 
that poaching rascal, Jonah Wood. I came home to ask 
yours, and you know very well, sir, that if I could have 
seen you before the shindy began you would have given 
it.” 

“ Hold your tongue, sir ! ” roared the Squire. 

“ But I beg your pardon, father. I can’t hold my 
tongue, and I must not hold my tongue. I’ve been a 
fairly good son, and in all reasonable matters I’m ready 
to obey you. But here I can’t.” 

“ You’d take a different tone if the estate weren’t 
entailed,” said his father. 

“Suppose we quarrel like gentlemen, sir,” Frank 
suggested; and then whatever relic of self-possession 
the elder man had left vanished entirely for the mo- 
ment. He roared so that the servants heard him, and 
gathered in a listening excited group in the hall. He’d 
ruin the estate, he’d beggar the worthless blackguard 
who defied him, he’d never see him or speak to him 
more. 

“ Leave my house to-night on that errand, and leave 
it forever so long as I am in it.” 


68 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“That ought to be enough for any man,” said Frank, 
“ and it should be enough for me if I thought you 
meant it.” 

“ Mean it ? By heaven, I mean it ! ” 

“ You don’t,” said his son, facing him in a dogmatic 
resolve not to lose his own self-control. “Did I ever 
wilfully give you a trouble in my life ? Do you mean 
to tell me that father and son are going to part like this 
after five-and-twenty years’ friendship ? ” At this he 
grew himself suddenly softened. “ Come, dad ; we’ve 
always been good friends. Why should we quarrel? 
I’ve heard you say yourself that Ophelia’s the best and 
prettiest girl for twenty miles round. And so she is, 
and for five thousand for that matter. Why shouldn’t 
I marry a blameless beautiful girl, who’s my equal in 
station, and my superior in everything else, if I’ve set 
my heart that way, and if she’ll have me ? ” 

“ That’s enough ! ” said the Squire, throwing himself 
with a crash into an armchair, and waving a backward 
hand of renunciation. “ Go your own way. But never 
darken my doors again.” 

“Very well,” returned Frank. “But before I go, 
look here. I’m no party to this idiotic shindy. I’m 
just as fond of you as ever I was, and this row is going 
to make no difference at all to my feelings. I’ll tell 
Walker to send down a portmanteau to the Fox and 
Dogs. Good-night, dad.” 

“ Good-by,” growled the Squire, with his back turned, 
and the set of his shoulders full of obstinacy and 
anger. 

Frank looked at him in silence for a minute, sighed, 
as if he recognized the hopelessness of expostulation, 
and then marched away sbre-hearted. He gave his fare- 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


69 


well orders in his father’s house, and, lingering a little 
on the threshold, walked on to the lawn. He turned 
there to look at the darkening building, which had not 
as yet a single light in any of its windows, and, stand- 
ing there, was aware that his father had opened the 
French windows of the dining-room and was looking 
towards him. 

Seeing that his presence was perceived, Marmaduke 
walked forward a dozen swift and angry paces. 

44 You understand what it means?” he said. . 44 You 
know what you’re doing? ” 

44 1 do, father,” the young man answered regretfully. 
44 1 wish you did. I’m leaving the best friend I ever 
had, because he bids me be a scoundrel. Good-by. 
You’re a good man, after all, and a just man, and you'll 
see the rights and wrongs of this one day as I do.” The 
father broke in with a curse and a passionate gesture. 
44 Ah, you will, though ! You’re not the man to hold an 
ounce of malice, and you know in your own heart that 
you’re wrong, this minute. There ! I won’t make things 
worse than they are. Good-by and God bless you, dad, 
and that’s the worst word you shall ever hear from me.” 

That was the end of the scene, for Marmaduke walked 
away without further speech, and Frank went heavily 
towards the Rectory, hanging his head somewhat, and 
feeling extremely dejected and unhappy, as was natural, 
all things considered. One bitterness was spared him. 
He had money in plenty, for a maiden aunt had left 
him her fortune, and all his mother’s possessions had 
come into his hands when he was at the age of one-and- 
twenty. He had money enough to marry on for that 
matter, but to have urged on the marriage whilst the 
Squire and the Rector had ill-blood between them would 


70 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


have only been to secure a feud between his father and 
himself, and to marry now before a reconciliation could 
be effected could only perpetuate eternally the strife 
already begun. 

But, light as his burdens were in comparison with 
what they might have been, he found them hard enough 
to bear. He was fond of his father, had loved him 
always with a warm-hearted affection, and he was 
grieved to the quick at his injustice and unreasonable- 
ness. Now and then, as was only natural, an impulse 
of anger shot through him, but he stilled it always, 
and would have no passion in his heart. It was enough 
to have one angry man in a family, and if there were 
sure to be an unfounded rage somewhere it should at 
least be all on one side. 

He strolled on almost mechanically, and was so ab- 
sorbed that he had even forgotten that he was out in the 
hope of meeting his sweetheart ; but his footsteps led 
him in the accustomed direction, and before he knew it 
he was pacing the familiar path in the field which faced 
Ophelia’s windows. He wandered to and fro, deep 
sunk in thought, until the girl ran up to him with noise- 
less feet upon the meadow turf, and laid a hand upon 
his arm. Then he turned, and, taking the hand in both 
of his, bent a mournful look upon her. 

“Frank,” she asked, “is there anything the matter? 
Why do you look so grave ? ” 

“ Did I look grave, dear ? ” he asked in answer. “ I 
suppose I did. I have had an unpleasant scene at 
home. My father is very angry, and for a while, at 
least, I shall have to steer clear of him.” 

“ What is he angry about ? ” she demanded anxiously. 

“ Oh,” said Frank, “ it’s nothing* after all. It will 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


71 


pass. You know his way. The best heart in the world, 
but an infirmity of temper. He has been very unreason- 
able to-night, and asked me to do an utterly absurd 
and ridiculous thing — a most unheard-of and impos- 
sible thing. I declined, and we had something very 
like a row. It will pass. He will see in a week or two 
how wrong he was.” 

“Frank, dear,” asked Ophelia, still leaving her hand 
between his two, “ was he angry about me — about 
us?” 

“ Well, yes, love,” Frank answered, not too ingenu- 
ously. “ I must confess that came in. But you 
mustn’t worry about it. It will all come right. And 
in the meantime we have other things to talk about. 
I am putting up at the inn to-night, and in the 
morning ” — 

“ Oh, Frank ! Is it as grave as that ? ” 

“Yes, darling, for the time being it is as grave as 
that.” 

“ He asked you to give me up? Was that the im- 
possible thing? ” 

“ It was just the most impossible thing you can think 
of,” he answered. “Find anything more impossible 
than that if you can, and I give you leave to think he 
ordered it.” 

“ And I am separating you ? Oh, Frank ! ” 

“ My darling, you are doing nothing of the kind. 
He is separating us — not you and me — but himself 
and me. I don’t think I spoke an angry or undutiful 
word. I certainly tried not to. But leave all that 
apart just now. I am going up to London for a little 
while, to give him time to cool and think things over. 
I shall write to him in a week or two, and make ap- 


72 


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proaches. Then, if he comes round,. well and good. If 
not, I shall come and live near you until such time as 
we can get married.” 

“ But Frank, dear,” she said, reluctantly, “you won’t 
like to estrange your father.” 

“ My dear Ophelia,” said Frank, rather masterfully, 
“ I don’t want to estrange my father. I am doing 
nothing to estrange him. It is he who, for the present, 
is trying — and failing — to ^strange me. Let us talk 
of other things, dearest. I sha’n’t see you again for 
weeks. How hollow that makes the world look.” 

They talked of other things, and in the growing 
darkness walked up and down the footway in the shel- 
ter of the hedge, he with his arm about her waist, and 
she with her head upon his shoulder. When it came to 
parting, she shed a tear or two, and he took her to his 
heart and comforted her, like a lover. He kissed her, 
and the whole world faded out of sight — all trouble 
and all sense of parting lost. And whilst they stood 
thus, entranced in one another’s arms, heart beating 
against heart, and lip clinging to lip, a voice spoke, with 
startling nearness, and they started guiltily from each 
other, assuming attitudes of the profoundest common- 
place and innocence, calculated to deceive nobody. 
But, luckily, the autumn night had settled altogether 
by this time, and things a dozen yards away were indis- 
tinguishable. 

“ If Ah had that man in ma haands,” said the dis- 
turbing voice, “ Ah’d just throttle ’m, and there an end. 
Ah’d teach the lyin’, false-hearted blackyard to mislead 
strangers ! ” 

“ I should like to help,” said another voice. “ Yere 
are ve ? It is enough to make a man svear.” 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


78 


“ You have lost your way, gentlemen ? ” cried Frank. 
“ Can I direct you ? ” 

“ Thank Heaven ! ” said the first voice. “ At long 
last here’s somebody. We’re sairching for a place 
called Thorburry.” 

“ You are in Thorbury already, sir.” 

“ Your lying plackguard vos right, afder all,” said 
voice number two. “ Do you know the Rectory, sir? ” 

“ You see its lights before you.” 

The two strangers scrambled over the stile on which 
they had leaned whilst making inquiry, and it could be 
seen that each carried a valise. The two marched with 
an air of some fatigue. 

“ Tank you,” said the German-sounding voice, and 
the Scotch-sounding voice drawled after it, in a tone of 
scant politeness, “ Thaank ye.” 

“ Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m an old friend of the 
Rector’s, and this is rather an odd hour for a visit. 
I don’t ask the nature of your business, but is it 
pressing? ” 

“ We’re expected,” said the Scot. “We should have 
arrived this afternoon, but we missed a local train. 
This is ma partner, Mr. Luitpolt Reinemann, and ma 
own name is Mac Wraith, at your sairvice. It’s our 
business to restore an auld Bible doon here, an we’re 
guests at the Rectory till it’s finished.” 

“ Permit me to accompany you, gentlemen.” 

The four set out in silence across the field together. 


74 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Messrs. Reinemann and Mac Wraith being intro- 
duced to the Rectory-hall, and a minute or two later to 
the drawing-room, turned out highly respectable to look 
at. Mac Wraith was dressed in the newest black broad- 
cloth, and wore a little turn-down false collar and the 
skimpiest of black ties. He was black-gloved also, and 
his hair, which was sandy alike in color and in texture, 
was plenteously oiled with an eye to the reduction of its 
tone. Everything he wore was a trifle too small for 
him excepting only his gloves and boots, which, in con- 
trast with his generally scanted aspect, loomed formi- 
dably large. He had a pair of nervous, shifty, red-brown 
eyes, to which a faint cast gave a look of vagueness at 
times, though at other moments, when the cast disap- 
peared, they were very bright and piercing. His upper 
lip was clean-shaven — which, if he had only kno wn it, 
was something of a misfortune for him — but he wore a 
rim of close-cropped beard and whiskers of a hue a 
trifle more aggressive than that of his sandy head. His 
complexion was of the color of cold boiled veal, and his 
manner was vitriolically oity. Reinemann was fat and 
ponderous, and looked the bigger for having everything 
he wore too large for him. He, like his partner, was 
dressed in 'black broadcloth, and he likewise shone, but 
with the subdued lustre of long wear. At the elbows 
and the knees and on the rounded slopes of his great 
shoulders, he glistened with a reputable well-brushed 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


75 


age. He had a great upstanding mop of black hair, a 
thin hooked nose between his fat creased smiling cheeks, 
and merry beady eyes which glittered like black gems. 
The two had left their portmanteaus in the hall, but they 
had carried in their hats, and stood side by side, ceremo- 
niously bowing. They were eminently respectable, but 
scarcely seemed at home, or accustomed to their present 
surroundings. 

“ You have been delayed, gentlemen ? ” said Dr. Hay, 
advancing to shake hands with them. “ I had not ex- 
pected to have the pleasure of meeting you this even- 
ing.” 

“Ye have missed the train,” answered Reinemann 
beamingly, “ but, dear sir, ve are here.” 

“We have tramped a little matter of four miles,” 
said Mac Wraith, somewhat bitterly, “bearing our bag- 
gage with us. We had begun to fear that we had been 
misdirected, when this young gentleman came to our 
rescue.” 

The Rector raised his eyebrows at Frank’s presence 
in the doorway. 

“ You would like to see your rooms,” he said. “ Allow 
me to conduct you. Mary, bring candles for these gen- 
tlemen.” 

They followed him and the spruce housemaid up the 
stairs, still nursing their hats, and the man-servant fol- 
lowed with the luggage. The Rector bustled back 
again to see that his visitors should have the where- 
withal to refresh themselves after their journey, and 
when his cares in that direction were over, went back 
to the drawing-room. There he found Frank alone, for 
Mrs. Hay and Ophelia were assisting the hospitable 
preparations. 


76 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


“ You know I am always heartily pleased to see you, 
Frank,” he began; “but don’t you think that, as mat- 
ters stand, your father will think this something of a 
slight upon him ? I would rather you waited for things 
to adjust themselves a little.” 

“ My father won’t know of this,” the young man an- 
swered. “It happens that I am not going home 
to-night.” 

This naturally astonished Dr. Hay a little, but he had 
no time or chance for asking further questions just then. 
Mr Reinemann, rubbing his hands and beaming, came 
creakingly downstairs, with Mr. Mac W raith in his rear. 
The fat German’s boots talked complainingly at every 
footstep, and at every instant of every footstep, but his 
collaborateur followed him as noiseless as a foe, as if 
he walked on velvet. 

“Supper is served in the dining-room, gentlemen,” 
cried the Rector. “ This way, if you please.” 

He made an excellent host with his quiet mild bon- 
homie, and his genuine unostentatious warmth of wel- 
come. 

The visitors were provided with excellent appetites 
and stood in no need of urging to fall to. The host sat 
down to carve and, if it might be, to enliven the meal 
with converse. 

“ I suppose, gentlemen,” he said, by way of a begin- 
ning, “that you are acquainted with most that is rare 
and curious amongst old books ? ” 

“We are, sir,” returned MacWraith in his saw-like 
voice. “ Pass the mustard.” 

His colleague obliged him. 

“I can fancy,” said the Rector, “that there are not 
many occupations fuller of interest than your own,” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


77 


“ Not many,” MacWraith responded. “Salt.” 

“ I can hardly conceive an occupation more enchant- 
ing,” said Dr. Hay. 

“It is a jarming oggubation,” Mr. Reinemann 
assented, with an air of some reluctance, as if he 
would rather less talk shop just then than stick to the 
moment’s business. 

“ Ah’d just defy ye,” said MacWraith, resting upon 
his knife and fork, and facing his host as if he had a 
grudge against him, “ Ah’d just defy ye, or any man 
else, to find a more pleasing.” 

Somehow the conversation languished after this until 
Mrs. Hay, Ophelia, and Frank came in, and bestowing 
themselves about the room made talk for the amuse- 
ment of the convives. Suddenly Mr. MacWraith 
dropped a sort of social obus. 

“ It’s like feeding in a menagerie,” he said, addressing 
his colleague in German, “ to sit and eat with all these 
eyes upon ye.” 

Mrs. Hay’s eyebrows sent the most delicate of 
semaphore signals across to Ophelia. The two ladies 
went out, and Frank, with a commendable gravity, 
followed. 

“Ye’ll excuse me for forgetfulness, sir,” said Mac- 
Wraith; “Ah’m in the habit of speaking German with 
my colleague.” 

“ It is one of our little household amusements here,” 
the Rector answered. “We shall be glad to join you 
in your practice, and to correct our pronunciation? 
which is a little insular, I am afraid.” 

“You vas veil caught that dime, Mac,” said Mr. 
Reinemann, speaking with his mouth full, and smiling 
broadly at the same time. 


78 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


For the rest of that evening Mr. Mac Wraith was not 
to be comforted, and it was a charity to let him have 
his way when he pleaded fatigue and the lateness of the 
hour as an excuse for retiring to his chamber. His 
partner accompanied him. They had already made the 
discovery that their bedrooms were side by side, and 
had a communicating door; and now, having locked 
the outer doors, Mac Wraith produced a whiskey bottle 
from his valise, and followed it with a pipe and a packet 
of tobacco. 

“All suppose tobacco’s taboo here,” he said, “but 
All'll not go without my smok’ for any man.” 

He poured out a glass of whiskey for himself rather 
liberally, helped his companion with a lighter hand, 
and then, having opened the window, sat down to 
smoke. 

“Ye shall have dull dimes here, Mac,” said the senior 
partner, lighting up also. 

“They’ll be no duller than Ah can help,” returned 
Mac Wraith. “What’s the auld fool want bringin’ us 
down here ? Why couldn’t we have done the wark in 
town, Ah’d like to know ? Does he think we’re going 
to steal his buik ? ” 

“ Not so loud, Mac, not so loud,” interjected the 
other. “Ye shall have dull dimes, but ve shall be baid 
preddy veil. Eh? Not? Yot? Eh, Mac? Ye shall 
be baid preddy veil. And ve shall not vork too hard. 
Eh?” 

“ Ah’m not going to spoil the market by making any- 
thing seem too easy,” said Mr. Mac Wraith. “ It’s a 
great error, that, with some folks. Slow and sure’s my 
motto. Slow work — sure payment.” 

The fat Reinemann, idly sipping his whiskey and 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 79 

water and puffing at his pipe, smiled approval at his 
companion. 

“It vill not cost us anything to lif here,” he mur- 
mured, by anR by. “ It vill be dull, but it vill be jeap. 
Thot is alvays somethings. Eh ? ” 

“Ay !” MacWraith assented, drowsy with the enjoy- 
ment of his pipe. “ We’ve just got to make the best of 
it. And, man ! ” he added, waking up suddenly and 
speaking with suppressed energy, “ that’s grand beef 
below-stairs. The claret’s a fine table wine, too. These 
bloated dignitaries o’ the English Church fettle them- 
selves right well, ma friend.” 

“ I shall not crumple at that,” said Reinemann, “ so 
long as they fettle me.” 

“No,” returned his partner, “ Ah’ve noticed that aboot 
ye. So long as ye’re pretty well provided for ye care 
very little for other folk. But let me tell ye that’s not 
a characteristic to brag of. Ah wouldn’t boast about it.” 

Whatever this acid maundering might mean, Mr. 
Reinemann paid but the smallest attention to it. He 
smoked at a big porcelain pipe with a painted lady on 
it, until he had had enough tobacco for his fancy, and 
then, rising, began to divest himself of coat and waist- 
coat. At the hint MacWraith withdrew to the 
apartment which had been made over to him, and 
there, in due time, got to bed with his head done up in 
a curiously knotted handkerchief, lest the hair-oil he 
used should soil the snowy pillow-case. 

The odors of tobacco and whiskey floated out of 
window on the air of the mild autumn night to the 
nostrils of Master Frank, who had possessed himself 
of the key to the front door of the Fox and Dogs by 
this time, and was prowling round the premises to be 


80 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


near Ophelia for this last night at home, and to steep 
his heart in such dreams as lovers are haunted with 
upon the like occasion. Odes to moon and stars, 
unrhymed, unformed ; gusts of fancy and feeling of a 
thousand turns and windings, which had but one direc- 
tion after all; passionate heats of heart, and sweet 
brooding blessings ; and over all an infinite vague 
longing and worship, such as that with which some men 
in youth look out on the infinite and unknown ; all 
these kept fancy and feeling busy, and made the night 
a revel of thought and sensation. “ To be near thee — 
to be near thee — alone is peace for me ! ” Oh, the 
brave days when one is five-and-twenty and in love. 
There is none like them, none, nor shall be till our 
summers have deceased. And the strange thing about 
them is that we always flatter ourselves that we are 
unhappy whilst we enjoy them, and look back to them 
as times of unattainable, unforgetable happiness, when 
they are flown away for good and all. 

The young man, in the mysterious dim light of the 
late rising moon, made a pilgrimage to the gates of the 
house in which he was born, and carried thither his own 
heart-picture of Ophelia lying in spotless virginal inno- 
cence and soft radiance like an angel on a cloud. He 
thought tenderly of the passionate old fellow indoors 
there, and had a kind of wonder that the thought of 
Ophelia’s youth, gentleness, goodness, and beauty could 
not somehow make him less hard and wilful. To him- 
self they were all-persuasive. We are all idolaters in 
youth — thank Heaven ! — and Frank was sunk fathoms 
deep and lifted sky-high by turns in worship of Ophelia. 

Resign her? he asked himself as he stood looking at 
the shadowy old house. Resign her? He thought of 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


81 


his own laughter in answer to that command a few 
hours earlier, and his soul laughed again, in a deeply 
silent triumph, scorn, and tenderness, such as only 
lovers know. Resign her ? Rather resign his own 
being, and suffer complete extinction — be blotted out 
of life and go. Oh! wilful, hard old man, is there 
no vision of these things in thy slumbering heart — r 
no knowledge of them in that night-capped head ? 
Good-by, thou foolish, violent, and yet beloved. Heaven 
will soften and persuade thee. The stars shall fight in 
their courses against thy worst and with thy better half. 

The stars of the kind autumn night looked down on 
the lover, lambent and pitying. The autumn dew upon 
his face was, like a mist of celestial tears. All men are 
poets in their hours of pain or passion. The lad went 
marvelling at himself when this rage of inspiration was 
over, and of course blessed and thanked Ophelia for its 
wonders, for in those days, oh, ’twas Ophelia, ’twas 
Ophelia, who made the world go round. Blest idiotcy ! 
where is the wisdom which brings its gray votaries a 
tithe’s tithe of its pleasure ? 

So, back to the Fox and Dogs, along the deserted 
village street. On this night of farewells everything 
is lovable. The inn-sign, with its comic virtues half 
revealed by the oil lamp over the door — the incredible 
fox with three unbelievable white wooden hounds with 
their mouths open and tapering sterns uplifted and all 
four beasts wedged immovable into a pea-green meadow 
— even that quaint bit of village art must have its 
good-by said to it in a blending of humor and sadness. 
There was something unfamiliar in the village street, a 
something memorable there, unnoticed until now. He 
knew he would see it so in after times. 


82 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


Frank had ordered lights and writing materials to his 
room, and wore out his candles in the vain effort to 
write a letter to his father. All his thoughts were too 
big to float in his inkstand, and not one of them was 
launched that night. If he had felt but half as much 
he could have got a nice filial persuasive letter upon 
paper, but as it was he had to go awaj^ in silence. He 
burnt the torn fragments of his letters in the grate of 
his bedchamber, and the chimney being stuffed up 
against ventilation, after the old inn fashion, the pun- 
gent smoke of the paper half choked him and set him 
coughing. He threw open his window, which looked 
upon the fields, and when his eyes were cleared of the 
tears the smoke had brought to them, he saw a shad- 
owy figure beneath a hedge at a distance of a hun- 
dred yards or so, and knew it for the figure of Jonah. 
The young man laughed rather forlornly to himself to 
think that this gaunt rustic was the fons et origo of his 
troubles. Jonah was at his poaching tricks again, of 
course. What else should bring him secretly slouching 
home at three o’clock of a moonlit autumn morning? 
taking guilty vantage of ditch and hedgerow ? 

Frank had breakfasted and was away London wards 
with his filial letter still unwritten before Messrs. 
Reinemann and Mac Wraith were awake.. The man- 
servant who took those gentlemen their shaving water 
sniffed accusingly at the lingering odor of tobacco 
smoke which still hung about the curtains in spite of 
the opened window of the night before. A single pipe 
of a night in the coachman’s room over the stable was 
not out of the man’s way, but tobacco within the Rec- 
tory itself was in a sort a desecration. Not even the 
• young Squire had ever allowed himself to smoke within 
those precincts. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


83 


Even if they noticed his accusatory sniffings and sig- 
nificant glances at the signs of crime, the offenders were 
too hardened in their wickedness to care for his disap- 
proval. They dressed, and, at the ringing of the 
breakfast-bell, descended. The sight of the well-fur- 
nished table bred content within their souls, and they 
ate and drank with splendid appetite and enjoyment. 
Then when they had had an hour for their own devices, 
and had taken a surface-look at the village, and had 
undergone examination and criticism in their own per- 
sons from its inhabitants, the Rector took them to the 
church and introduced them to the Bishops’ Bible. 

“ Yes,” said Reinemann, when he and his partner had 
examined the venerable volume carefully, “ ve can make 
a chob of that. Ve can make a very nice satisfacdory 
goot chob of it, but it vill dake dime.” 

“ You must take your own time, of course, gentle- 
men,” returned Dr. Hay ; and then ensued certain busi- 
ness details, in which^ the partners cheated him as far 
as they dared. They might have gone further if they 
had only known it, for they had to do with' one of the 
simplest creatures in the world, who thought every 
living creature honest, and loved his neighbor as him- 
self, poor man, and would have been horribly ashamed 
of the mere suspicion that anybody was trying to wrong 
him. In this transaction Reinemann took the hopeful 
optimistic view, and Mac Wraith did the doleful part of 
the business. It was Mac Wraith who saw all the diffi- 
culties, it was he who pointed out all the dilapidations. 

“Yes, yes,” Reinemann always assented, “but ve 
shall make a goot chob of it at de finish. You vill 
hartly know your book again. Vait a month, sir, vait a 
month. You shall see vot you shall see.” 


84 


THE BISHOPS BIBLE. 


The precious tome was carried tenderly to the Rec- 
tory, and there the two visitors were installed in a room 
set apart for them. There they got the implements of 
their art about them, and worked all day, emerging only 
at meal-times. Dr. Hay made occasional incursions, 
watching their labors in. a smiling silence, and growing 
hourly fonder and fonder of his treasure, and exulting 
mildly meanwhile over his beautiful church. He made 
occasional excursions to see how that was getting on, 
and was as absorbed and happy in his two joys as man 
well can be, until he awoke to the reflection that with 
this merely worldly or secular work of restoring Bibles 
and churches he was forgetting higher things, and so, 
with inward reproaches, undertook to banish his pleas- 
ures from his mind. 

Incidentally he learnt much in the course of the 
next week or two of title-pages and colophons, and rare 
editions of this, that, and the other famous work, for 
Mr. Reinemann was disposed to conversation as he grew 
used to his new surroundings, and would flow out ge- 
nially about his own experiences. But in spite of all he 
had to occupy him, the Rector missed the Squire and 
he missed Frank, the latter almost bitterly, for, in his 
own self-accusing, tender-conscienced way, he accused 
his own meddling rather than Boyer’s vile temper, and 
held himself more than half responsible for the young 
man’s severance from his father. For another thing, he 
was afraid of boring his own household with his enthu- 
siasms, and Frank and his father would alike have shared 
them at one time. Now he had only Saint Sauveur to 
fall back upon, Saint Sauveur was enthusiastic about 
little but music, unless, indeed, it were his old friend 
and college chum and present patron, whom he would 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 85 

openly proclaim to be the best man that ever wore shoe 
leather. 

Ernest Saint Sauveur had reason for that opinion, 
for when his French property went to the mischief In 
one of the political convulsions in which France seems 
fated to pass a great deal of her time, Dr. Denis Hay 
was the only one of all his old friends who held out a 
hand to him. The Huguenot French gentleman, by 
breeding and education, had come to be nine-tenths 
English. English village life suited him to perfection, 
and his choir and organ kept him in sufficient occupa- 
tion. He lounged a good deal because he really could 
not help it, and saw no other way of putting in his 
time. Almost of necessity he saw much of the restorers 
at their employment, and at length became so interested 
in their work that he would spend whole hours in 
watching them. Mr. Mac Wraith’s asperities and Mr. 
Reinemann’s contrasting oiliness of benevolence amused 
him, and the whole thing came as a welcome distraction 
to a man only one quarter occupied. 

But for some reason Messrs. Reinemann and Mac- 
Wraith were not as fond of being watched as Saint 
Sauveur was of watching, and one Sunday afternoon, 
as they strolled in the fields together in their respect- 
able black, a little conversation on the subject ensued 
between them. 

“ The game has its risks in any case, my friend,” 
said Mac Wraith; “and it’s just a providence that we 
haven’t been nailed a year ago. Ah’m not denying that 
it’s profitable, but it’s very risky, and risky in more 
ways than one. When Ah think of the learned ijiots 
we’ve fooled in our time I just have to laugh. But we 
can’t do our work with that French felly always hanging 


86 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


aboot ns, and Ah’ll have to get away to London once a 
week or so and labor by myself for half the time. Ah’ll 
expect my extra labors to be respected and counted for 
in the end ; but that we’ll talk aboot later on.” 

u Yes,” Reinemann asserted, “you had pedder co. 
But I don’t see vy you should dalk about your labors, 
my friend, any more than I dalk about my labors, my 
friend. Vile you do the bogus I do the real, and von is 
no harter than the other. You can have a letter the day 
after to-morrow if you write for it to-night, and you can 
be called up to town on imbortant business. Eh? Not? 
Very well. If you think your vork is harter than mine 
I’ll take yours and ve’ll share alike. Eh? Vot?” 

A listener might have thought that these gentlemen 
were plotting to substitute an imitation for the valuable 
and genuine old volume they manipulated. But then 
they both looked most highly respectable, and it was 
beyond doubt that in their day they occupied a most 
excellent position in their own line of business. A 
game of that kind would indeed have been risky, and 
in the long run could have been worth no able artificer’s 
while. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


87 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Ophelia was crying, and Dr. Hay knew not whether to 
be more alarmed or astonished at that unwonted spectacle. 
There are some girls who are always crying, or drying 
their tears, or getting ready to cry, but Ophelia was not 
of that watery sisterhood, any more than she was of 
that opposing creed whose tutelary deity is the merry, 
merry Zingara who laughs ha, ha ! on what appears to 
be inadequate provocation. Ophelia was a young 
woman of well-balanced mind and affections, and no 
oftener laid the dust of the desert with her tears than 
she could help. The Rector had known nothing like 
this for a dozen years, and knew not what to make of it 
or what to do. 

It was a charming autumn morning, and Messrs. 
Reinemann and Mac Wraith had been at work on the 
Bishops’ Bible for about a month, more or less, when 
Dr. Hay, walking unexpectedly into the morning-room, 
beheld this unusual and embarrassing sight. He had 
not the clearest eyes in the world, and his spectacles 
being perched up on his forehead, he did not at first 
make out the character of the tragedy, but as he opened 
the door he distinctly heard a sob, and before he could 
arrest himself he had passed the threshhold and stood 
face to face with his niece. An involuntary action 
snatched the glasses down upon his nose, and for one 
frightened moment Ophelia regarded him, and breaking 
anew into tears, ran past him and scurried upstairs and 
out of sight in an instant. 


88 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


This thing could not be without his special wonder, 
but the good man, after staring at her retreating figure 
and for a while surveying the staircase from which she 
had disappeared, very wisely sought his wife and laid 
the case before her. Now, if the Reverend Dr. Denis 
Hay were pitiful and mild, as he assuredly was, his wife 
was still more tenderly developed for mildness and pity, 
as became her sex. They could hardly have taken the 
life of a fly between them if they had egged each other 
on to bitterness, and the old lady no sooner heard the 
news than she went soberly after Ophelia and found 
her, at first with interposing locked door, weeping in her 
own bedroom. 

“ My poor dear child,” said the elder lady, taking the 
younger in her solicitous arms, “whatever is the 
matter ? ” 

Ophelia looked up at the benevolent, good face she 
had known from childhood, beaming kindness and sym- 
pathy between its silvery bands of hair, and answered 
of course that it was nothing ; but Mrs. Hay was not 
to be put off in that fashion, and learned in the course 
of a minute or two that the cause of trouble was 
Master Frank’s disagreement with his father, and his con- 
sequent absence in London, and the fear lest the separa- 
tion between sire and son should be eternal, and a general 
sense that she, as the casus belli , ought to withdraw from 
her place and make room for souls who panted to be 
reconciled. 

Mrs. Denis Hay preached patience, and preaching it 
none the worse because, unlike many advocates of that 
virtue, she practised it, won her cause, and left the girl 
with her momentary tears assuaged. Then she sought 
the Rector, who was walking with a troubled air about 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


89 


the lawn at the back of the Rectory, out of sight of 
Ophelia’s windows, which looked towards the front. 

“Ophelia,” said Mrs. Hay, “is grieving about the 
quarrel between Frank and Mr. Boyer. I have told her 
that it will come all right with time. I hope it may, 
Denis, and that time may not falsify my words. Could 
we do anything, do you think ? Might I go to Mr. 
Boyer ? He could not very well be rude to me, as he 
might be to you. I am not at all afraid of him,” she 
added with a smile. “ He is not nearly so terrible as 
people think him. He has a warm temper, certainly,” 
she admitted ; “ but like all warm-tempered people he 
has an excellent heart.” 

“No, no, my dear,” said the Rector, not in answer to 
her estimate either of Marmaduke Boyer or of warm- 
tempered people in general, but in response to her pro- 
posal to visit him. “ I think you had best leave that in 
my hands. I am afraid I have been somewhat remiss in 
the matter, but I have thought of expediency. I will 
go and see Boyer at once. I hardly fancy he can 
be so enraged against me for a simple matter like that 
poaching affair that he will not listen to reason where 
his own son is concerned. *1 will go and see him at 
once.” 

He delayed only to secure his hat, his stick, and his 
gloves, and set out through the misty lanes. The gos- 
samer hung or floated everywhere, for the morning was 
still young, and the Rector pushed on, making as light 
of the obstacles before him as if they had been so much 
of that vague filament, and as easily swept or carried 
away. Translating himself into Marmaduke Boyer, he 
saw quite clearly how difficult it was to sustain the 
present position, and how easy and natural to retire 


90 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


from it. On the one hand was a dearly beloved only 
son, and on the other a revered if abnormally hasty 
parent. Now, what more natural could there be than a 
reconciliation between the two, if only a friend would 
take the trouble to start it ? A good many years ago 
the Rector and Mrs. Hay had had a boy of their own, 
the only fruit of their union, and the Rector’s heart was 
unusually soft and warm within him as he thought of the 
easy task the peacemaker would have had who sought 
to bring him back to his own flesh and blood after some 
trumpery temporary possible estrangement. 

The Squire was out of doors, earning an appetite for 
breakfast by a walk about the lawn. He heard the 
creak and clang of the gate as the Rector entered, but, 
having no idea that he was going to receive a visit at 
that hour, forgot the sounds long before Hay’s gaunt 
figure came in sight. When, in the course of his rapid 
passage to and fro, he turned, he experienced quite a 
shock at the sight of that once familiar and welcome 
form, but immediately recovering himself, walked, like 
the ill-conditioned Briton he was, into the house, and 
slammed the hall door violently behind him. In this 
his violence overshot the mark, for it never occurred to 
the venerable cleric to suppose that any well-bred man 
could intentionally be so uncivil. He conceived him* 
self not to have been seen, and continued his advance 
in complete oblivion of the affront which Boyer had in- 
tended to put upon him. The Squire, surveying him 
from the French windows of the identical room in which 
he and Frank had had their quarrel, could scarce be- 
lieve his eyes. If any man had shown him as poor a 
welcome it should have been enough, he declared to 
himself, to last a lifetime. But these confounded clergy, 


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91 


with their long-suffering airs ! Hang them for a set of 
canting, meddlesome prigs and humbugs ! Befriending 
poachers, and be hanged to them ! instead of supporting 
justice, and seeing to it that Authority held her sway. 

The unconscious Rector rang the bell, and being an- 
swered, sent in his name. 

“ Show him in,” said the Squire, in no very amiable 
tone or mood. 

“ Good-morning, Boyer,” said the Rector, entering, 
and receiving nothing but a mutilated nod in answer to 
his salutation, waited until the servant had closed the 
door behind him. 

The man stood outside and listened, and the conver- 
sation which ensued was public property before the sun 
went down. 

“ I ought to have come here long ago,” began the 
Rector. 

“ Many men, many minds,” said the Squire, balancing 
himself on the hearth-rug with his hands rammed into 
his pockets, and his commonplace aspect of obstinacy 
increased tenfold. 

“ I am quite willing to admit that I was wrong to in- 
terfere in that matter ; but then, you see, I was ignorant 
of Jonah’s history, and his father was so extremely posi- 
tive. But I did not intend to make excuses. I want, 
in the first place, to apologize for my mistake, and to 
ask that we may be friends again. We have been friends 
for a good many years, Boyer, and it is always a pity 
for men who have known each other, and liked each 
other, to quarrel.” 

“ I am not a quarrelsome man,” said Boyer. “ But 
you stepped in between a notorious scoundrel and his 
deserts. A rascal who has been robbing my preserves 


92 


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ever since he was the height of my trousers pocket. I 
took your interference ill, and I had a right to take it ill.” 

“ I have no doubt I was wrong,” said the Rector. 
“ I know I was wrong, but I was wrong by accident. 
I am very sorry for my error.” 

“Well,” said the other, somewhat shamefaced, “say 
no more about it.” 

“ Thank you ! ” cried the Rector delightedly. He 
advanced with outstretched hand, and the Squire per- 
force had to offer his own palm. No grip went with it; 
but the parson was hearty enough for two, and did not 
at the moment miss the answering pressure. He thought 
about it afterwards, and came to the conclusion that he 
bad been precipitate. It was his habit to be precipitate 
in thinking well of others. “ I might have known all 
along that I had nothing to do but to bring my apology. 
I owe you another for having put it off so long.” 

“ Say no more about it,” said the Squire, and for the 
first time the chilliness of his tone struck upon the 
clergyman’s ear. 

He found an instant justification for it in the con- 
cealed sweetness of the Squire’s nature. Boyer could 
not pardon gracefully, but that was because he felt 
deeply, and did not care to reveal his feeling. 

“ Englishman-like,” thought Dr. Hay, who rather 
prided himself on his judgment of character. “ Really,” 
he said aloud, “ I ought to have come before, and to 
have done you the justice to believe that you would not 
be rancorous with an old friend over a blunder of that 
sort.” It was plain that he had never risen to a knowl- 
edge of the enormity of his own offence in Boyer’s 
eyes. “Better late than never, however,” he added, 
rubbing his hands. “ Better late than never.” 


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93 


In the presence of this simple geniality it was impos- 
sible to be openly offensive. The Squire was more than 
nine-tenths ashamed of himself, but that was a sensation 
which was hard to endure. His usual remedy in such a 
case was to fly into a passion, and to justify himself to 
himself with violence. Afterwards, if the other man 
chose to pocket the affront, and to say no more about 
it, he himself was always willing to forget ; but know- 
ing, as he did here, that he owed more apologies than 
were due to him, and being interiorly a just man what- 
ever he might have been on the outside (having a con- 
science, that is to say), and yet being utterly unwilling 
to pay his debts in this regard, he was far from being 
happy or at ease. It is probable that he saw his way 
ahead and reserved the explosion of his forces until he 
could seem to himself to have a reason for it. Dr. Hay 
had said that in the first place he wished to apologize. 
The phrase implied that there was more to come, and 
he guessed beforehand that it would relate to Frank. 
There, at least, he would be free to resent interference. 

“ And now that we are friends again,” began the 
simple-minded one, but broke off short to laud the 
Squire’s good-nature. “ I knew we should be. I knew 
I could rely on your sound heart, Boyer, and now that 
I come to think of it, I am ashamed not to have come 
to you before and thrown myself upon your kindness.” 
If things had not gone quite so far, and if what the 
Rector had in mind was a virtual acknowledgment 
that he, Marmaduke Boyer, had acted like a fool, he 
would in all likelihood have yielded here. But the ex- 
pected provocation came as he had almost known it 
would. “ I should not have come now,” Dr. Hay went 
on, smiling with his characteristically gentle humor, 


04 


THE BISHOPS 9 BIBLE. 


44 if it had not been for a little domestic incident at the 
Rectory this morning. We elderly people, of course, 
are superior to that kind of feeling, but we can remem- 
ber, eh, Boyer ? The fact is that Ophelia is troubling 
herself quite sadly about Frank. It was all my stupid 
fault that any thing ' ever came in between the young 
people at all, and now you and I might lay our heads 
together and put things straight for them. It’s not a 
matter,” he added, looking out of the window and still 
smiling, 44 it’s not a matter which will need any pro- 
found contrivance, I fancy.” 

44 You may arrange your own affairs how you will, 
Dr. Hay,” returned the Squire, and at the tone and 
words the Rector turned in dismayed astonishment. 
Everything was going so smoothly. It had looked 
as if the old saw which Shakespeare made or quoted 
were going to fulfil itself, as if naught should go ill, and 
Jack should have Jill, and the man should have his 
mare again, and all should go well. The very words 
were in the happy unconscious Rector’s mind, and he 
was making ready to quote them with a humorous 
beforehand enjoyment. And then — 44 You may arrange 
your own affairs how you will, Dr. Hay,” said the 
Squire ; 44 but I claim, if you please, to arrange my 
own.” 

44 Certainly, my dear Boyer, certainly,” cried the 
Rector. 44 By all means ; by all means.” 

44 1 don’t disguise from you, Dr. Hay,” said Boyer, 
44 that I think ill of your meddling in matters that don’t 
concern you. I take leave to tell you, sir ” — he was 
often inclined to be Parliamentary in his form at the 
beginning of an address of this sort, though he could 
grow unparliamentary later on — 44 1 take leave to tell 


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95 


you that I think ill of the manner in which you have 
taken upon yourself to conduct the church service at 
the parish church. I take leave to tell you, sir” — 
growing louder and louder, and taking wider leave as 
he went on — “ that I don’t want any of your damned 
interference in my affairs, sir, and that I won’t have it, 
and that the oftener you come here the more you will be 
welcome to stay away. You’d like your niece to make a 
match and get her off }mur hands, no doubt, and so far 
as I'm concerned you’re welcome to do what you 
please. As for Frank, he’s no son of mine, and for all 
I care he may go to the ” 

“Boyer,” cried the Rector, in a stricken voice, “you 
can’t mean it.” 

“ I can, and I do,” roared Boyer. “ Now go and cant 
about the village, and set folks’ minds against me — if 
you can. But mind this — you’ve misappropriated 
Crown funds already, and you’re going to suffer for it. 
Where I fasten I stick, sir, and I’ve fastened there. 
Ill have things honest, square, and above-board in my 
own parish, if I die for it.” 

With that he marched from the room in a towering 
rage, and the listening servant, happily for himself, 
hearing his voice nearing, fled without noise down the 
carpeted hall, though he still heard his employer’s last 
angry syllable. 

The Squire slammed the door, and the astonished 
Rector stood alone. 

“ The Treasure Trove ” was his first thought. “ I am 
a born blunderer, but surely there is nothing wrong in 
that.” 


96 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The fugitive Joseph, bent upon despair, and resolute 
to throw his life away, was yet inclined to do things 
decently and in order, and made a point of enlisting in 
the Household Brigade. For this his height of five feet 
eleven qualified him admirably. He was marked as of 
“superior education ” in the schedule of his faculties 
drawn up for the edification of the authorities at the 
Horse Guards ; and his harmless and tractable ways 
with his superiors, combined with a sort of fading 
swagger of Eve-lies-a-bleeding, which he wore outside 
amongst his barrack-room companions and the barmaids 
of their acquaintance, secured him a certain consider- 
ation. 

In Thorbury people spoke of him with bated breath. 
It is a tribute to the wisdom of our rulers that when a 
young man resolves on entering the army through the 
ranks, he is universally supposed to have gone quite 
desperate and reckless, and to have proclaimed himself 
a wastrel. Young men in Thorbury, whose fathers 
went early to bed, and insisted that all members of their 
households should do likewise — young men who were 
ungenerously limited as to pocket-money — young men 
whose sweethearts were obdurate, or who found the 
sweethearts’ relatives unamenable — young men who 
were in distress of any sort, who were in debt or were 
bitter of soul — threatened to follow Joseph’s terrible 
example. 


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97 


The most contradictory sentiments reigned in the 
village with respect to the churchwarden, his father. 
With some he stood for the personification of all heart- 
lessness, some thought he played the Roman nobly. 
Isaac, neither knowing nor caring what others thought, 
went his own pig-headed way in silence, but troubled 
himself more than anybody would have fancied. His 
son’s enlistment was a lasting shame, as any rustic 
father would have felt it to be. 

Joseph, being dismissed his drill, and allowed to 
parade the streets in uniform, availed himself of that 
liberty with a blending of doleful pride and sombre 
resignation. He characterized his uniform, to himself, 
as “ the livery of his doggeradation / 5 A South 
Staffordshire man of Joseph’s time liked to get as 
many syllables as possible into a long word, just as he 
loved to have liberal folds and wrinkles in his Sunday 
coat. But, the degradation notwithstanding, Joseph 
when alone would thrust out his chest and draw in the 
small of his back, and square his elbows in imitation of 
the more dashing of his comrades ; and though he was 
undoubtedly gloomy at times, life had its compensations 
for him, as it has for the rest of us. 

He was in Hyde Park one afternoon, lank and trim, 
with his stock half choking him, and, as he swaggered, 
with his feet wide asunder, lest his spurs should tear 
his tight-strapped trousers, he was suddenly aware of 
the Prince of Thorbury, Mr. Frank Boyer, who stopped 
stock-still on beholding him, and, after one astonished 
stare, burst into friendly laughter, and thrust out a 
gloved right hand in greeting. Joseph touched his 
forage c*ap with the short cane he carried, and then 
stood at ease, blushing and grinning, in a compound of 
shame and pride and pleasure. 


98 


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“Shake hands, man,” said Frank; and Joseph obeyed 
the order. “ So this is what you’ve done with yourself, 
is it?” 

“ Yes, Mr. Frank,” returned Joseph, suddenly solemn 
as the grave, “ this is what we’ve come to, sir.” 

“Well,” said Frank, “no such bad business, either. 
You seem to thrive on it. Upon my word, they’ve set 
you up uncommonly well, Joe. They’ve actually 
pulled you out an inch or two. You’re as straight 
as an arrow.” 

“ Oh, it’s a healthy life, Mr. Frank,” Joseph 
responded, “ and it’s capital exercise. There’s no 
denying that ; and it makes a man of a man, no doubt ; 
but it isn’t the career I should advise anybody to take, 
sir.” 

“ Joe,” said the young Squire, “ you are an integral 
part of a mighty force — a force which has made itself 
known and feared the wide world over.” 

“I know I am, sir,” said Joseph; “and I could find 
it in my heart to wish I wasn’t.” He shook his head 
with a world of meaning. “ I wouldn’t have the folks 
at home fancy I felt like that, Mr. Frank — not for the 
world. I can tell you, because, if you’ll allow the word 
to pass, we’ve always been good friends, and I know 
that what I say goes no further ; but I shouldn’t like 
the folks at home to know it. I shouldn’t like father 
to know it.” 

“I understand. He won’t know it from me, you may 
be sure. He and I are not very good friends just now, 
I’m sorry to say.” 

“ I’m afraid he’s not the man, Mr. Frank, to be good 
friends with anybody. He’s got feelings, I dare say. 
It’s a saying that everybody’s got his feelings, and the 


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99 


heart knoweth its own bitterness ; but if father’s got 
any, he’s cleverer than most at hiding ’em. He never 
showed me any, not even when I was no higher than 
that. It used to be 1 Take your shirt off, Joseph, and 
go into the brew’us,’ as regular as clock-work, Mr. 
Frank, whenever there was any sort of a dispute 
between us. My bare back and his stick’s been made 
acquainted a thousand times. It’s all very well to 
discipline children, but I shouldn’t have liked father 
the worse for it if he’d let me off now and then. And 
when you come to think of it, Mr. Frank,” he added, 
with a mild reflectiveness, “ a kid can't be so blooming 
wicked that he really wants licking every day of his 
life. If he could be, it’s my opinion there’d be no good 
in licking him.” 

“ There’s a good deal in that, Joe,” Frank assented. 
“ But you’ll remember it when you have children of 
your own, you know, and they’ll have all the better 
times because your own times were a bit harder than 
they need have been.” 

u I shall never have any children,” returned Joseph. 
“ I’ve seen the married women in quarters, and perhaps 
you haven’t, Mr. Frank. I shouldn’t care to marry a 
woman who’d been used to that kind of life, and the 
man who’d bring a nice girl into it, why, he’d want kick- 
ing. Kicking wouldn’t meet the case, sir. Boiling 
wouldn’t be too bad for him.” 

“Come, Joe!” said the young Squire, “there’s a 
heart beneath that scarlet jacket. You haven’t for- 
go tton — ” 

The life-guardsman blushed, so that his blue eyes and 
close-cropped flaxen hair went quite colorless by com- 
parison with his complexion. 


100 


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“I shall be obliged, Mr. Frank,” he answered, “if 
you’ll leave that alone. All that is buried in the past, 
sir. That’s what’s the matter with it. It’s buried in the 
past.” 

“ That’s all very well, my dear Joe,” answered Mr. 
Frank, who could see plainly enough that Joseph was 
less unwilling to pursue the theme than he pretended 
to be. “ That’s all very well. But Susannah isn’t 
buried in the past, you know, and, judging from her 
walk and her complexion, isn’t likely to be buried in 
the past this fifty years to come. You’ve got her to 
think about. Eh? You’re not going to stop where you 
are. Naturally, a stout-hearted, capable young fellow 
like you is going to put his shoulder to the wheel and 
get the cart along somehow.” 

“No, sir,” said Joseph, with sombre brow. “It’s all 
over, Mr. Frank. I’m done for.” 

“Rubbish!” said Frank genially. “You know 
better ! And you haven’t got only yourself to think of. 
There’s the young lady down at Thorbury, in all likeli- 
hood crying her eyes out, whilst you’re swaggering 
around killing the girls in the London parks. Come and 
talk with me when you get leave next time. There’s my 
card. We’ll have a chat together, Joe, and make up 
our minds as to what is to be done.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Frank,” said Joseph more gloomily 
than ever. “ It’s like your goodness, I'm sure, but it’s 
no use troubling you with my affairs. I’m done for. 
I’ve chose, sir, and I must abide by it.” 

“ We’ll talk more about that,” cried the young gen- 
tleman. “ Life's a long business at our time of life, Joe, 
and things are not over yet. Come and see me as soon 
as you can. Good-by for the time being. I’m a little 
late for an appointment already,” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


101 


He went away with a friendly flourish of the hand, 
and Joseph, not altogether displeased to have been seen 
by one or two of his comrades in conversation with a 
person of Mr. Frank’s figure, continued his aimless af- 
ternoon ramble, it was not easy to see how Mr. Frank 
was going to be of service to him, or how anybody or 
anything was going ever to be of use to him any 
more. Perhaps the iron had not as yet entered Joseph’s 
soul very deeply. It is possible that if it had he would 
have taken less pleasure in the belief that he was utterly 
and completely done for, that he was a social castaway, 
a waif, who could be picked up and brought back to port 
by no miraculous vessel. In that sentiment up to the 
present moment he took a gloomy and unfeigned 
pride. There was, in the barrack library, a work, of 
which I have forgotten the title and even the author’s 
name ; but which may still, perhaps, be remembered for 
its uncompromising presentment of one fact. 

“ The 'personnel of the British Army,” said the writer, 
“ is made up of the failures of civil life.” J oseph had 
read this pleasing tome, and had found it (as every 
young recruit who has come across it must have done) 
infinitely soothing and helpful. It speaks well for the 
Military Authority who has the selection of books for 
barrack libraries, that he should be careful to keep up 
the self-love and esprit de corps of the troops by present- 
ing them with printed reflections so inspiriting and 
useful. 

Once or twice, later on, when the rules of the service 
allowed him to air his long legs and straight back in the 
public thoroughfares, Joseph had thoughts of hunting 
out Mr. Frank, and at least enjoying the mournful satis- 
faction of proving to that well-meaning and friendly 


102 


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young gentleman that his (Joseph’s) case was hopeless ; 
but whether he were withheld by shyness or shame or 
pride, or a compound of the three, he never paid the 
contemplated visit, and a month or two rolled on without 
bringing to pass any further meeting between the two. 

In the end, it was Frank who sought out Joseph, and 
found him in his shirt-sleeves, burnishing a helmet with 
a little bit of pointed stick and a pinch of Bath-brick 
powder. Joseph, pipe in mouth, sat upon the iron frame 
of his bedstead, not far removed from the fire, and 
worked idly and thoughtfully, poking his little bit of 
pointed stick into the metal interstices of the bottle- 
hat, and pausing often. On a bench before him sat a 
gayly dressed young man of about his own age, a little 
London dandy of the lower rank, who wore a quantity 
of gilded base metal in the way of jewelry. This gen- 
tleman’s long hair came into contact with his coat collar, 
and had left there signs of its owner’s use of those es- 
senced oils with which it was once the mode for men of 
fashion to anoint their locks. Ilis linen and his finger- 
nails were, perhaps, a little dubious, but there could be 
no doubt about the owner’s apprehension of himself or 
of his own splendors. A tasselled cane, the well-con- 
served stump of a cigar, and a single glove, unworn, 
but dingy with service, occupied his attention by turns, 
and each afforded opportunity for the display of such 
graces as are only to be acquired by residence in a 
capital. 

Frank entered the room unannounced — a shirt- 
sleeved warrior at the foot of the stairs had directed 
him — and, advancing unnoticed, clapped Joseph on the 
shoulder. The doleful young guardsman, turning at 
this, arose, and shook hands respectfully. 


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103 


“ I don’t know if yon remember Corney Badger, Mr. 
Frank,” he said, waving a hand towards the young 
gentleman of the locks and the jewelry. “ He’s kind 
enough to come and see me sometimes. He’s a Thor- 
bury man, though perhaps you mayn’t recall him.” 

Frank had to confess that Mr. Badger had escaped his 
recollection. He remembered the boy, but would with- 
out aid have failed to identify the man, who was some 
half-dozen years his elder, and had^ been out of Thor- 
bury apprenticed to a London dry-goods-man, this score 
of years ago. 

“We came across each other quite by chance,” said 
Joseph, whose mournfulness had taken a very deep 
tinge indeed. “ He was good enough to claim me, and 
he’s good enough at times to come and sit with me, and 
to exchange the time of day. Have you had any news 
from the Chase, Mr. Frank? I don’t know whether I’m 
right in asking or not, but I hope the Squire’s quite 
well.” 

These inquiries and Frank’s replies to them enlight- 
ening Mr. Badger as to the new-comer’s identity, that 
gentleman drew in his legs to allow him to pass, and 
indeed seemed to draw in at all points, and to diminish 
alike in size and radiance. For to all JThorbury-bred 
shopboys, even though they had been emancipated from 
the territorial influences for years, the name of Boyer 
came as a name of power, and the Chase was a residence 
of splendor, the like of which could hardly be found in 
the world elsewhere. 

“ I remember your respected father, sir,” said Mr. 
Badger, screwing his features into an expression of 
tenderest interest. “ I hope he keeps his ’ealth, sir.” 

Frank had not taken any great liking to this new ac- 


104 


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qUaintance, and was perhaps a little haughty with him. 
Mr. Badger was one of those gentlemen whose manner 
appears to invite signs of haughtiness from their social 
superiors, and who would really appear to enjoy being 
snubbed and despitefully treated. He was alternately 
fawning and familiar, and on the strength of his long 
residence in town had adopted an accent in which 
the most charming of the peculiarities of Cockaigne 
mingled delightfully with a lingering remnant of his 
native drawl of Thorbury. 

“ I haven’t been down there now,” said Mr. Badger, 
gnawing the head of his cheap stick, and taking an in- 
trospective look — “I haven’t been down there now, not 
for, I should think, nine ’ear. I suppose it’s of no use 
denying as it’s slow down there — is it, sir? But I’m 
going to take a run down to see an old aunt of mine in 
the neighborhood. If I could be of service to you , 
sir ” — 

Frank professed that he was greatly obliged, but could 
not see in what manner he could avail himself of Mr. 
Badger’s kind proffer. 

“ Anything I could do, sir,” said Badger, “ I am sure 
I should be delighted.” 

“ When you can give me a quiet minute, Joe,” said 
Frank, ignoring this flourish of politeness, “I should 
like to have a serious talk with you. I have something 
of importance to say to you.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Joseph, “ Mr. Badger wouldn’t 
mind walking over to the canteen. There are two or 
three men he knows who’ll most likely be there at this 
time.” 

Mr. Badger accepted this invitation to withdraw, and 
shook hands with the young Squire, who felt clammy 


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105 


and uncomfortable after this salute, and would fain 
have washed his hands at once. It is a thing for which 
no humane man can be anything but thankful that the 
people who inspire these feelings are ignorant of the 
fact. It is, perhaps, not a thing to be thankful for that 
they are generally amongst the most self-satisfied of 
men, and are convinced that their neighbors think as 
highly of them as they do of themselves. Mr. Badger, in 
the pleased conviction that he had rather fascinated the 
young Squire than otherwise, took his way to the can- 
teen. Young Mr. Boyer would have noticed beyond a 
doubt the polish the Thorbury metal could take when 
it chanced to be carried to London. There was no 
touch of the yokel about Corney Badger, C. B. was 
pleased to believe. The contrast between himself and 
Joseph could hardly fail to make itself observed. 

“Now, Joe,” said Frank, when he found himself 
alone with his pays , “ you wouldn’t come to see me, and 
so I’ve been obliged to come and see you. Haven’t you 
had about enough of this ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir,” returned Joseph. “ I’m getting- 
used to it, I dare say, sir. I don’t feel it as I did at 
first. It’s a lazy sort of life and a useless sort of life at 
present, and I could wish that I’d chose another corps. 
There’s all the fighting stuff of the army wanted just 
now, Mr. Frank, and all we great big hulking chaps are 
stopping at home. That’s hard lines, rather, ain’t it? 
The boys call after us in the streets, ‘Feather-bed sol- 
diers ! ’ That’s rather a queer imitation of feathers,” 
he added, turning round with a laugh, and punching 
the coarse ticking of his neatly rolled straw mattress, 
“but it’s pretty easy to see how folks think and feel 
about the Guards, sir. We’re good to sit on our big 


106 


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black chargers and be stared at, and to spend our time 
over Warren’s blacking, and pipeclay, and chrome 
yellow, and a chain burnish, but that’s all we’re good 
for. We’re meant for ornament, we are, and I think as 
a body that we’re ornamental, Mr. Frank ; but that 
isn’t what a man was made for, not if he feels himself 
to be a man at all. There is a bit of talk now and again 
about our being sent out as well, but that’ll end in talk. 
Some of the chaps are just wild about it, but for my 
part I’ve got no hopes of any such thing happening.” 

“ That being the case,” said Frank, “ you can’t have 
much objection to my proposal.” 

“ And what might that be ? ” 

There was a kind of respectful beforehand defiance in 
Joseph’s manner which put the young gentleman upon 
his guard and his mettle at the same time. 

“Now, Joe,” said he, laying a hand on the other’s 
shoulder ; “ to begin with, we’re not going to have any 
sort of nonsense between you and me. We can say 
things to each other that people who haven’t known 
each other all their lives can’t say. Now, between our- 
selves, Joe, you were an ass to enlist at all.” 

“That’s truth,” cried Joseph, “if truth never was 
to be spoke again in the world.” 

“Very good,” said Frank. “Now, any man may be 
an ass by accident, but it’s only your real donkey who 
keeps on being an ass in spite of his experience. You’re 
not going to the Crimea — you’ve quite made up your 
mind to that fact — and you’re dead sick of this present 
do-nothing business. Very well. Apply for your dis- 
charge at once. I’ll find the money, and — do hold 
your tongue for a minute, there’s a good fellow ! — I’ve 
been talking to a man 1 know who has business in the 


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107 


City, and telling him about you, and your habits, and 
what you can do and all that — and he can find a place 
for you.” 

“No,” said Joseph, laying down the bottle-hat and 
rising very decidedly. “No, Mr. Frank. It’s very 
kind of you, sir, and if there was nothing moving I’d 
take your offer as kindly as it’s meant. But though I 
don’t believe we’re going to fight, there’s them as do, 
and I won’t leave while anybody thinks there’s a chance 
of it. There’s nobody sicker of an army career than 
me, I do assure you, Mr. Frank, and as for the Roosians, 
why should I bear ’em any malice ? I never so much as 
set eyes on one so far as I know. I don’t want to fight, 
and I won’t pretend I do, though there’s some that goes 
a-swaggering and would make a man believe they loved 
blood like gravy. But I won’t leave the corps, sir, not 
while any man thinks there’s a chance of our being 
called on. Not as I think they’d let me go, neither, to 
be quite plain with you, but whether they would or not, 
I won’t try. Many thanks to you all the same, sir, and 
I couldfi’t be more obliged not if I took your kindness 
a dozen times over.” 

Now, at this very instant there was a sudden roar of 
a cheer in the room below, and a scattered roar in the 
square like a scattered fire. Then a noise of windows 
slamming up and doors violently thrown open, and then 
more cheers. Then on a sudden the door of the room 
in which Frank and his fellow-villager stood together 
was burst open, and half a dozen guardsmen rushed in, 
with Mr. Corney Badger at their head. 

“ Stringer, old chap ! ” shouted Mr. Badger, waving 
his tasselled cane wildly. “The Guards has got the 
rowt. You chaps is bound for the Crimea,” 


108 


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CHAPTER X. 

But our story is of Thorbury, and whatever happens 
to those people who have quitted it is not of the least 
consequence to us except it acts upon those who are 
left behind. The excitement in London barracks, and 
the wild cheers of London mobs as the gallant fellows, 
who had never as yet drawn a sword in anger, march 
through the streets on the way to war — these tilings 
are outside our chronicle. Like the master of all story- 
tellers, under similar conditions, we stay at home with 
the non-combatants. 

Mr. Corney Badger, then, was the bearer of the only 
authentic tidings of Joe Stringer which had yet reached 
Thorbury since the young man’s departure from it. 
Joseph had promised to write to little Mary, and would 
have kept his promise beyond a doubt if it had not been 
for a variety of intervening circumstances and emotions. 
He was supported by pride and anger when he went 
away, and he made the promise under their influence. 
But when he had taken the sergeant’s shilling, he was 
not disposed immediately to send home the news. He 
put it off somehow for a more convenient season, and, 
being more and more disgusted and lonely and down- 
hearted about his own fate, — the mealy-hearted Joseph, 
— he wound up by not writing at all. ' Only when the 
news of war came his seeming indifference melted, and 
by the secret hand of Mr. Badger he sent down memo- 
rials to his sister for transmission to a young lady named 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


109 


Susannah, with whom the reader has not vet made per- 
sonal acquaintance, but who may still adorn these pages 
by her presence. Joseph sent off by the post a letter to 
his father, in which he said very little of his own hopes 
or fears, but enough to frighten that hard old man 
considerably. 

My Dear Father, — As you are no doubt aware from the 
newspapers, the Household Brigade is going out to the Crimea. 
I joined on the day I left home, and I am going out with them, 
having passed my drill five months ago. It may happen that I 
shall never come back, though I shall hope different ; but if not, 
there is no bad blood on my side. X That is all I write to tell 
you; and I am, my dear father, your affectionate son, 

Joseph. 

There was a big black X with a line drawn from it, 
leading from the last full stop but one to the opposite 
page, and there the writer had added : 

“ Whether I come back or no, there is no bad blood 
on my side, and never was nor will be.” Then fol- 
lowed : “I do not think ” — but this had a line through 
it, and Joseph had evidently determined to keep what 
he did not think to himself. He had been on the point 
of saying that, in his opinion, Isaac had not acted wisely 
towards him ; but where was the good of embittering 
controversy? If he fell, the mistaken parent would 
suffer; and Joseph felt a consolatien in the thought. 
When he was gone, his obscured excellences would be 
cleared, and would shine brighter than they had ever 
had a chance to do before. It was very evident that 
when this condition of things came about it would 
not be possible for Joseph to extract much comfort 
from it. Whatever joys it yielded must be had in 


no 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


prospect, and even there he found the comfort cold at 
times. 

In his letter to little Mary he had opened up his heart 
more fully, but if anybody had wanted to see the real 
interior Joseph at that time, he would have had to read 
his letter to his sweetheart. He might have come to 
the conclusion that it was a rather incoherent Joseph, 
who was not very sure of his own mind, divided between 
the desire to die and be forgotten, and the desire to live 
and be gloriously remembered ; and prophesying on the 
one hand a neglected grave in an unknown country, and 
on the other a splendid return from war, drums beating 
and colors flying. The truth is that these contradictions 
presented the only possible portrait of the young man 
who was going away; and it is very likely that they 
would have served to express the inward and spiritual 
features of a good many of his comrades. 

Cornelius Badger, making his easy way to Thorbury 
to revisit old friends, and to dazzle such as were un- 
familiar with metropolitan splendors, reached the village 
twelve hours after Joseph’s letter had been delivered by 
the postman. Little Mary had taken in the letter at 
the door, and, with a beating heart, had set it beside her 
father’s plate at the breakfast-table. Ironside Isaac, see- 
ing it lie there, had put up his glasses to look at it, and, 
having recognized his son’s handwriting, had restored 
the spectacles to their case without a word or a sign 
that Mary could read. He ate with no diminution of 
his ordinary appetite, and when the meal was over, he 
took the letter away with him. He read its few lines 
in solitude, and they had far more effect upon him than 
the average spectator beholding him could have guessed. 
The dimly formed idea of months ago that he might 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


Ill 


have been more reasonable with Joseph bad come to be 
something like a creed with him. He liked the lad in 
his independence and rebellion better than ever he had 
liked him in the days of his submission. Where this 
old man could tyrannize, in fact, it came natural to him 
to despise, and the slave who refused to submit to his 
dominion became naturally and immediately respectable. 

All this had nothing to do with any possible recon- 
ciliation. He was not going to own himself in the 
wrong — to humiliate himself before his own flesh and 
blood. He would rather have died than have owned 
that he was anything but wise and just. Something 
within himself whispered an accusation, and he made 
but few defences. But to another like himself he 
would have denied them with all the energies of his 
soul. 

He went about alone a good deal on the day of the 
letter’s arrival, musing on its contents. His heart 
smote him to think that Joseph might come back no 
more. There were many mourning families in England 
in those days, as middle-aged readers will well remem- 
ber. Women in black were a common spectacle in all 
ranks of life, and in any crowd the men who wore black 
hat-bands were conspicuous by their numbers. It 
angered the old man that Joseph forgave him. What 
right had the runaway young rascal to say that there 
was no ill blood on his side ? He tried hard to shelter 
himself behind that breastwork ; but where is the good 
of any breastwork when your foeman is within ? What 
avail walls of strength if you yourself will open the 
gates, and let the enemy sneak in one at a time? 

His meditations lasted him all day, and kept him 
more than usually silent at the dinner, tea, and supper 


112 


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table, and even carried him forth at night into the field 
behind his own house, where he paced to and fro, smok- 
ing his evening pipe in strange disquiet. 

Whilst he was thus occupied, he thought he saw a 
gliding, stooping figure in the darkness, and, crouching 
down beside a neighbor’s garden wall lest his own head 
should be visible against the sky, he watched and lis- 
tened. A moment’s watchfulness assured him that his 
suspicions were not without foundation. Somebody 
was prowling at the rear of his own premises, and a low 
and guarded whistle seemed to indicate that a signal 
had been arranged. The prowler, pulling himself up 
by both hands, revealed a chimney-pot hat and an in- 
determinate profile showing faintly against the night 
sky, which was gray with scudding cloud. Even in 
these little favorable circumstances Isaac thought he 
could have recognized any Thorbury man. The district 
round about was nowhere very thickly populated, and 
he knew everybody for miles. The man in the chimney- 
pot hat was a stranger, and Isaac, with suspicious 
fancies rising fast against the servant-maid, stalked the 
shadowy figure, keeping well within the sheltering 
darkness of the wall as he advanced. In the course of 
a mere moment or two he came within pouncing dis- 
tance of the intruder, and, making a sudden dash at 
him, secured him by the arm. 

“ Hillo ! ” said the captive in a cockney sounding 
voice. “ What are you up to ? ” 

“ What are you up to ? ” Isaac demanded in turn. 
“You come along o’ me, young man. Let me have a 
look at you.” 

The captive was no other than Mr. Corney Badger, 
who, having had secrecy impressed upon him, had taken 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


113 


tliis lurking way to it, and had thus brought sus- 
picion upon himself. He had argued — out of his own 
experience, it may be — that a furtive whistle at the 
back door might not go unnoticed by the domestic ser- 
vant, and from her to her young mistress had seemed 
an easy step. 

“You can have as long a look at me as you want 
to have, governor,” he responded soothingly. “You 
needn’t hold on quite as tight as that, unless you like 
to.” 

How should he explain his presence there ? How 
pretend business of any sort ? 

Stringer, meanwhile, had haled him through the 
doorway which led from his own back garden to the 
outer fields, and, having locked the door and pocketed 
the key, marched him briskly towards the house. 

“ Here ! Take it easy, governor,” cried Mr. Badger, 
who, above all things, wanted time to think. “ You 
needn’t tear a gentleman’s coat-sleeve out at the armpit. 
No, sir, really. I’m a-coming quiet, ain’t I? Take it 
easy, then.” 

Beyond the garden lay a paved yard, a patch of which 
was feebly illuminated by the candle-light which shone 
through the kitchen window. Here Isaac brought his 
man up sharply, and, swinging him round so that he 
faced the light, stared at him in angry inquiry. 

“ Why, bless me ! ” cried Mr. Badger, in pretended 
surprise; “it’s Mr. Stringer! How do you do, sir? 
I wondered if I’d made any mistake with regards to the 
’ouse, after having been away for so long a period of 
time, sir.” He had his excuses ready now, and was 
confident that they were irreproachably complete. “ I 
only got down from town this evening, Mr. Stringer, 


114 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


and I thought I’d just come round and give Joseph a 
call without disturbing the rest of you so late in the 
evening.” 

“ Who are you ? ” asked Isaac. 

“Who am I? Why, I’m Corney Badger. You ought 
to know me, Mr. Stringer. My mother Was a tenant of 
yours for many ’ears. You see, Mr. Stringer, I’m used 
to latish hours myself. You get into that way in Lon- 
don, comparatively speaking. I wasn’t quite sure that 
you mightn’t have gone to bed, and, of course, I shouldn’t 
have dreamed of disturbing anybody. Is Joseph at 
home, Mr. Stringer?” 

“No, sir,” said Isaac, who having suffered his hold to 
grow more and more lax, had at length let it go alto- 
gether. “ Joseph is not at home. I don’t remember as 
ever you was that intimate with him as you could come 
and whistle for him when you wanted him.' It’s years 
since you was down here, and Joseph was no more than 
a child at the time. That cock won’t fight, Mr. Badger.” 

“ I’ve got a message for him,” said the mendacious 
Corney, and straightway he concocted a little story of 
a Barfield youth with whom Joseph had been familiar, 
and who had since gone to London. The two young 
fellows had had many things in common, and the 
invention of the message was the simplest thing in 
the world. 

“You can spare yourself the trouble of bringin’ any 
messages here,” growled Isaac, who was too proud to 
let any man tell the tale before him if he could help it. 
“ My son has seen fit to leave my house, an’ where he is 
I nayther know nor care. He’s gone a-sojerin’ seem- 
in’ly, for I got some sort of a scrawl from him this 
mornin’, but I don’t look to hear any moor on him, and 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


115 


I’d just as soon have the room of his companions as 
their company. I’ll take leave to see you off my 
premises, young man.” 

“ I’ll call and pay mj r respects in the morning, Mr. 
Stringer,” said Corney, keeping in mind the packet he 
had promised secretly to deliver to Mary. 

“ You can save yourself the trouble,” returned Isaac. 
“ I bean't anxious to mend acquaintance with you.” 

There was a candor about this which was difficult to 
misinterpret, and Mr. Badger went his way in some 
perplexity as to the manner in which he should dis- 
charge his engagement to his friend. It did not weigh 
very heavily with him on the morrow, and, as a matter 
of fact, it might have been forgotten altogether, if it 
had not happened that he went to church on Sunday 
morning, and there made out that Joseph’s sister was, 
to his way of thinking, an uncommonly pretty girl. 
Cornelius was a professional lady-killer, and was got up 
especially to do execution amongst the village fair that 
morning. Poor little Mary, finding herself regarded by 
the dubious buck from London, blushed a good deal, 
and was somewhat alarmed by him. She thought he 
looked very noble and handsome, and if Cornelius had 
only known her thoughts of him he would have been 
flattered indeed. A good few of the male members of 
the congregation could have found it in their hearts to 
boot Cornelius. He took insufferable airs, sticking his 
dirtily gloved hand into his open waistcoat, and ogling 
the ceiling in a musical rapture whilst the Psalms were 
sung — sweeping that same dirty glove through his 
essenced locks with a Tappertit complacency. Cornelius 
was snub-nosed, and, though he was far ahead of his 
time, and wore a chin-tuft, he was really far less 


116 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


majestic of presence than he thought himself. The 
Squire and St. Sauveur were tickled by him, each 
in his own way enjoying the new-comer’s graces and 
shabby splendors. The Rector had some ado not to 
smile at him. Not often does so very cheap a Lara, 
Manfred, Don Juan bless any British village with his 
presence. But the^girl thought him quite beautiful 
and noble and romantic, and when his cunning little 
orbs languished at the ceiling she was certain he had a 
sorrow somewhere. He was like — he was like — her 
reading had not been very extensive, but she wanted a 
hero to whom to resemble him. He was the very first 
person of his sex who had made an impression on that 
young heart — which turned out to be a little too 
impressionable when the conqueror came. Perhaps it 
is often so. The virgin citadel strikes its flag, not only 
without a blow struck in self-defence, but without ever 
having been summoned to surrender. The conqueror 
rides b}^ without asking to take possession, and the 
citadel's occupant is left lonely and grieving. 

Cornelius, though Avilling enough to believe in his 
good fortune with the ladies in a general way, was less 
than half conscious of the impression he had made. 
The letter he had in charge for little Mary helped him 
to an aspect of secrecy burning for communion. In 
that rank of life, and at that time of day, a young 
gentleman of experience in the world thought next to 
nothing of winking at a young lady, and by gesture 
inviting her to private conference. Corney naturally 
tried all his graces, all his arts of persuasion, but 
Mary, though she saw them, and though her unpractised 
heart beat high, hung out of reach, and would not come 
for his calling. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


117 


He was at church again in the evening, quite contrary 
to his usual practice, and Mary stole sly glances about 
the place until she had discovered his whereabouts. 
There was no mistake at all about it. The mysterious 
elegant stranger in the long hair and the gloves was 
making eyes at her, and was posing for her benefit. 
Was it unnatural for the trembling little village maiden 
to ask herself, in a doubting, heart-shaken wonder and 
triumph, if she had made a conquest? We are all mor- 
tal, and many of us are foolish. 

The matter got to seem beyond a doubt when day by 
day the Elegant strolled past Isaac’s house with repeated 
glances at the windows. Whenever he caught sight of 
Mary he made veiled signs to her, and on one or two 
occasions, when he was quite sure that nobody else ob- 
served him, he took Joseph’s missive from his pocket 
and held it so that it could be seen by the blushing young 
lad}^ who peered from behind the window-curtains. Is it 
needful to say that the blushing young lady spent a good 
deal of her time in the neighborhood of those window 
curtains, or that she watched for the conqueror’s pres- 
ence? Her silly heart told her that the letter con- 
tained a declaration, and Cornelius Badger grew hand 
somer, nobler, and more interesting day by day. Mary 
knew his name by this time, and thought Cornelius the 
dearest title in the world. What a charming name, to 
be sure ! Cor-nelius. It was like him somehow, and 
suited him. Not even love’s dawning dream could ro- 
manticize Badger over-much, but Cornelius — the owner 
of the name and not the name itself — could ennoble 
any appellation. 

It was very evident that so long as Mary chose that 
the letter should not be delivered, Corney could find no 


118 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


opportunity of handing it over to her. It was she who 
must make the chance — the young man could do no 
more than make signs that he wanted the chance 
made for him. So, after two or three days of coy de- 
nial, the citadel capitulated in form. Mr. Badger had 
gone languishing by with his glance on the window 
panes of the room he now recognized as Mary’s. He 
had shown the letter, and had looked with the most ago- 
nizing appeal right in the eyes of the young lady. 

When he had gone by ten minutes or a quarter of an 
hour, she put on her bonnet and shawl and stole into 
the street, with such burning cheeks and sparkling eyes 
that she was ashamed and afraid to be seen. Her heart 
beat beneath her bodice with such a rat-tat of an alarum 
as had never sounded there before, and her breath was 
troubled and uneven. Surely she was doing nothing 
wrong, and yet she felt unutterably guilty. She dropped 
her veil, and had much ado to walk as if she was bent 
upon a common enterprise. Oh ! if everybody, if any- 
body could read her secret ! 

Reynolds’s Miscellany of this period had the most 
thrilling stories of love and adventure. The wickedest 
lords and the most enchanting pickpockets lived in its 
brilliant pages, and within the last day or two, Mary, 
going over the store of back numbers in the possession 
of an old schoolfellow of hers, had come to the conclu 
sion that Cornelius rather resembled the great George 
Barrington, the most exquisite cut-purse, a gentleman 
of such finished manners that he picked pockets and 
stole jewelry at a Court ball. She was sure that Mr. 
Badger was naughty — in a perfectly harmless and ro- 
mantic way, of course. She had no suspicion that he 
picked pockets. She knew very well by this time that 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


119 


he earned a respectable living in London employment, 
but she must needs put some sort of halo about him, 
and this was the only one she could find to her hand. 
Fashions in dress, fashions in speech, and fashions in 
literature used to descend from one class to another in 
a much more marked degree than now. The country 
vulgar talked of “ tay ” and “ chaney ” a hundred years 
after the town fashionables had done with those pronun- 
ciations. The romantic hero marked with one virtue 
and a thousand crimes lingered in the 'literature of the 
poor years and years after the modern masters had 
driven him from the stage before which we burn in- 
cense to culture. To get a Cornelius out of the com- 
monplace at all, he had to be wicked. 

Here was the country road with not a soul in sight, 
and little Mary getting a trifle frightened a nd low-spir- 
ited. What if he had shown that letter for the last time, 
and had made up his mind to waste his time no further ? 
What if he were marching at this moment direct for 
Castle Barfield town with intent to take coach and train, 
and so back to London for good and all ? The dreams 
had not been dreamed for long, but even dream-flowers 
can take root. Jack’s beanstalk was of that sort most 
likely, and every one knows to what a height and at 
what a pace that wonderful vegetable throve and pros- 
pered. The poor child was ready to cry to think that 
she had so given herself away for naught, when the 
young man turned the corner rather more than a hun- 
dred yards away. He was smoking a short clay, but even 
that became him as it could have become nobody else 
in the world. At first he did not see her, or feigned not 
to see her, but her knees almost failed beneath her. 
Little as she was learned in the ways of masculine hum- 


120 


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bug, she knew well enough that he was aware of her 
presence long before he meant to bestow a visible regard 
upon her. He sleeked his innocent chin tuft, caressed 
his hair, raised his hat that the breeze of heaven might 
visit his brow, and looked abstracted, as though poetical 
fancies sailed his inward deeps, and he surveyed them, 
charmed. 

He started as she neared him, and raised his hat with 
a sweeping salutation. 

“ I believe,” he said, “ that I have the honor to ad- 
dress my conversation to Miss Stringer.” 

Miss Stringer with a half-courtesy — looking a hun- 
dredfold more dignified and stand-offish than she felt — 
admitted that his guess had hit the mark. How de- 
lightfully he spoke ! how charming was the single 
simple phrase in which he hailed her ! Who, among 
the youth of Thorbury, could boast such an address ? 

“ That bein’ so, Miss,” said the fascinating youth, “ I 
am the bearer of secret intelligence. Your brother 
Joseph, Miss, entrusted this package to my sacred care. 
There is inclosures within it which, as your brother 
Joseph give me to hunderstand, was priceless in his 
eyes, Miss. Will you permit me, Miss, to ’and it over? 
Thank you. My little mission in Thorbury is now 
discharged. If you should have any little commission 
for your brother before I leave, I ’ope to be going back 
to town in the course of a day or two, and could see as 
it was forwarded to him. I will now bid you good- 
afternoon, Miss.” 

He was gone lingeringly, and she had not the cour- 
age or the skill to stop him. A fine lady might have 
had savoir faire enough, but Mary was helpless. He 
bowed — oh ! how he bowed ! — and went his way. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


121 


Would she ever, ever see him again ? She felt wicked, 
when she came to think of it afterwards. She had pri- 
vately been disappointed to find that the stranger’s 
packet was no more than a letter from Joseph, and in 
penitence for that sin she cried that night until her 
eyes were swollen. Human motives are terribly mixed 
things, and she dreaded even whilst she cried lest the 
wicked regret should mingle with the pious repentance. 
Perhaps it did, but little Mary had by no means seen 
the last of Mr. Badger, though she bade him farewell 
with more tears than a much more deserving young 
man would have been worthy of. 


122 


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CHAPTER XI. 

The Squire of Thorbury was fully persuaded that he 
was doing no more and no less than his duty when he 
rode into Barfield and took advice as to the steps which 
should be taken to compel the Rector of All Angels to 
restore the treasure-trove to the Crown. I never knew 
precisely what legal machinery was set in motion, and I 
forget whether the good Doctor was or was not plagued 
with the delivery of documents. He certainly knew 
of the proceedings actual and pending, and was greatly 
harassed by them, for the treasure-trove was spent, and 
if he had exceeded his rights in spending it he would 
be very much troubled indeed to make good the money. 

Of course Marmaduke Boyer was bound to justify 
himself. He knew by this time that he had been a 
wrong-headed fool, and the thought that other people 
were in all likelihood very much of his opinion used 
almost to madden him. As for ceasing to be a wrong- 
headed fool and acting like the sensible and good- 
hearted fellow he knew himself to be at bottom, tliat v 
was clean out of the question. It would have entailed 
a confession at the very beginning, and he was not the 
man to confess that he had ever been wrong in his life, 
even though that clearance of conscience would have 
set him in the right way for the rest of his days. 

Whatever was a matter of offence to the parson began 
to be a matter of gratification to him, and by parity of 
reasoning and feeling whatever pleased Dr. Hay was a 


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123 


source of displeasure to the Squire. The very signs of 
the church repairs were a trouble to Boyer. Whilst 
Messrs. Reinemann and Mac Wraith had been in the 
village, and he had sometimes unavoidably encountered 
them, he had been used to walk or ride by with a scowl, 
and had so steadfastly refused any answer to their salu- 
tations that they had ceased to offer any, and passed 
with as plain an ill-will as the Squire himself displayed. 
When those worthies had gone away — their work being 
completed — Boyer had visited the church, and had in- 
spected the old Bishops’ Bible in its renovated condition 
with a surprising spleen and anger. Over a hundred 
pounds had been spent upon the work. He harangued 
everywhere about it — in his own house and abroad. It 
was a wicked, wanton, wilful waste of money ! How 
much good might not have been done amongst the poor 
of the village with a like sum ? N obody dared to ask 
him why he, seeing this so clearly, did not spend such a 
trifle, and do out of hand the good he desired. He 
would never have felt the loss of the money, but to tell 
the truth he was not keen in works of public utility as 
a rule, and only cared for this because it gave him a 
chance for a fling at the parson. 

Dr. Hay was one of the sweetest-natured men in the 
world, and he had two or three refuges which Boyer 
lacked. On both sides the combat was unequal. The 
Rector would not have hurt a worm, even if the worm 
had been mischievous. He was so constructed that no 
greater pain than the knowledge that lie himself was 
the cause of pain could possibly have assailed him. 
There — as a combatant — the Squire had the distinctest 
advantage over him, but on the other hand, Denis Hay 
was so slow to offence and never met offence half-way. 


124 


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He was a born humorist of the kindly, inexpressive sort 
— the kind of man who can never suffer bitterly because 
of his own perfect lack of gall, and he was a practical 
Christian into the bargain. Insult and misconstruction 
fell from him as water falls from a duck’s back. He 
pitied the insulter, and more or less saw a droll side to 
everything. His kindly heart and sunny nature armed 
him in the full panoply of charity. It was really diffi- 
cult to hurt him, and nobody but a headstrong donkey 
like the Squire, or an ignorant bigot like the church- 
warden, would have willingly made the attempt. But 
no man is altogether proof against malice and stupidity, 
and between the two he was sorely wounded. 

Zealous Isaac was watching the repairs in his usual 
grudging humor on the Monday which came after his 
first news of his fugitive son. He was more than com- 
monly wrathful at the Rector’s heathen doings because 
he was more than commonly sore and angry with him- 
self. It was a day of cold sunshine and hard wind, and 
a sandy, mortary grit was flying in the air to the dis- 
comfort of aitybody who chose to walk in the church- 
yard. The vestry was half unroofed and one of its 
windows was out. A great gap in the church Avail, 
where some ancient doorway was to be restored, per- 
mitted the eye to Avander from the churchyard over a 
third of the interior of the building, and as Isaac leaned 
his arms upon the bare stone and mortar of the vestry 
Avindow-sill, he could see the lectern, Avith the restored 
Bishops’ Bible, chained in the old fashion, lying upon it. 
A huge modern quarto lay beside it, and the broad oak 
desk had room both for the neAv and the old. 

Stringer, careless of his customary broadcloth, lolled 
with his elbows in the mortar, and shook his shiny silk 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE , 


125 


hat into all manner of strange angles, his head twitching 
this way and that as his own dogmatic wrathful spirit 
pricked him. There was not a thing in view which did 
not, more or less, disturb and anger him. A score of 
years later the smell of quicklime was for him the rep- 
resentative odor of the scarlet woman of Babylon. 

Whilst he stood grudging and grizzling, Saint Sau- 
veur and the Rector appeared in view, and were seen in 
conversation with the master-builder, pointing hither 
and thither, and inspecting this and that, in a dumb 
show, hateful to Isaac’s heart and understanding. They 
were so disagreeable to him that he must needs get 
nearer to them. He sauntered through the vestry door- 
way, brushing the dust and crumbs of mortar from his 
respectable elbows, and scowling with all his might and 
main at the Reverend Dr. Hay and his organist, who 
remained for a time unconscious of him. 

“ By the way, Denis,” said Saint Sauveur, drawing a 
pocket-book from his breast, “ I have something curious 
to show you. I found it in the Athenceum this morning, 
and cut it out for you.” He searched through the vari- 
ous compartments of the book with his long spatulate 
fingers, and, lighting on the scrap he sought for, smoothed 
it out on the* lectern, and read aloud : “ An excellently 

preserved and complete copy of the Bishops’ Bible has 
been offered to the Imperial Library at Dresden. The 
price demanded is <£800. The example, which is printed 
on vellum, is said to be a very fine one. Its authenticity 
is undoubted, and considerable interest attaches to it, 
on the ground that every vellum-printed copy of the 
edition of 1568 was supposed to be already known and 
accounted for.” 

“ Dear me ! ” said Dr. Hay. “ Eight hundred pounds ? 


126 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


So much as that? Dear me!” He was abstracted at 
the moment, but woke up almost immediately. “ Really 
eight hundred pounds. That is a great deal of money, 
Ernest. A great deal of money.” 

With that he came, gauntly stooping, to the lectern, 
and began to turn over the vellum leaves of the old 
book, whose huge clasp and padlock lay unused. 

“I wonder,” said Saint Sauveur, “where that un- 
known copy came from.” 

“ Ah,” replied the Rector. “ I wonder.” 

An illumination of satanic stupidity entered Mr. 
Isaac Stringer’s mind. Dull and stolid as he was he 
grasped at it. 

The two gentlemen remarked his presence almost 
simultaneously, and one of them gave a little start at 
seeing him unexpectedly so near. The Rector bade him 
a courteous good-day, as he did always ; but Isaac 
growled a sort of inarticulate challenge in return for it. 

“Him and his good-mornings ! ” said he a few min- 
utes later, when he was left to himself, and parson and 
organist were in the windy, sunlit churchyard, but still 
visible through the open porch. “ Him and his good- 
mornings! I’ve no patience with them snaky, slimy 
ways. What’s he want to talk to me for, when he 
knows I hate the sight on him ? ” 

He saw the two off the premises before he allowed 
himself to give a sign of the thought that was in his 
mind. Then, when he was quite alone, he went to the 
lectern, and turned over the leaves of the old book. 

“ Eight hunderd pound’s a lot o’ money,” he mused. 
“ This is no more like th’ old book than I’m like my 
great-great-grandfather. Lord o’ mercy ! I reckon as 
you could buy this for a tenner at any time. This ship- 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


127 


skin’s a bit dearer than paper ; but outside that I don’t 
see wheel* the differ lies. It’s as plain as the nose on a 
man’s face.” 

He simmered with hate and anger. To a man of his 
fibre there was nothing so natural and easy as to believe 
ill of an enemy. The Rector had sold the old book, 
and had a cheap substitute set in its place. He was 
convinced of it. He had not the remotest ground for 
this insane and wicked suspicion, but his hungry malice 
wanted none. His desire was proof enough. 

It would be unfair to forget how much the odium 
theologicum moved him. If that were no excuse, how 
many estimable Christian gentlemen, whose names are 
cherished by the Churches, would sink to the stature of 
the meanest hate and spite and envy. 

He was so absolutely certain of his ground, that he 
went off to the Chase at once, and laid the thing before 
his ally the Squire, as if it had been a matter of proved 
and certain fact. 

“ This goes beyond everything, Mr. Boyer. What do 
you think now as that theer cussid Rector of ourn has 
gone and done at last ? ” 

Isaac told his tale with conviction, and Boyer was 
half willing to believe. Then a revulsion came. 

“ Rubbish, Stringer ! Rubbish ! I should be a scoun- 
drel if I allowed myself to think of such a thing for a 
moment. Dismiss that mad fancy from your mind, man. 
He’s an infernal, meddlesome, silly* old fool, and too 
fond of sticking his nose into other people’s business ; 
but, hang it all, he isn’t a daylight robber of the Church 
he serves. No, no ! Hang it all, Stringer ! ” 

“ Hast looked at the book, Squire ? ” asked Isaac ; 
and the Squire was compelled to admit that he had 


128 


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done nothing of the kind as yet. “ Come and look at 
it. Tell me if the book as lies theer now is hunderds 
o’ years old, as the t’other was known to be. Come 
and look at it. It’s a thing as a child might speak to.” 

Marmaduke Boyer was not learned in old books, 
but he knew somewhat more than Isaac, and under- 
took to disperse his foolish fancy for him. He accepted 
this task the more readily because he was genuinely 
ashamed of having for a moment given the suspicion 
a hearing. 

“ D’ye see,” said Stringer, turning over the leaves. 
“ Do you mean to tell me as this is hunderds and hun- 
derds o’ years of age as th’ode book used to be ? No, no. 
Thee knows better than that, Squire. Why, look at it.” 

“ My good fellow,” said Boyer, 44 the book has been 
restored. What do you suppose a hundred pounds 
have been spent upon it for, if it was to look now as 
it looked when it was allowed to tumble all to pieces ? ” 

44 If this heer shipskin’s any older than I am,” said 
Isaac, gripping a score of the leaves together, 44 I’ll 
eat it. The parish is a-bein’ swindled, Squire.” 

44 Stringer, you’re a fool ! ” cried Boyer. 

44 That’s as may be,” returned Isaac, who was in 
no wise displeased at this open statement of opinion. 
44 But one way or another I’ll find a way to put it to 
the test. There's them as knows, I reckon. I’ll find 
out if it costs me tw.enty pound.” 

44 You’d better spend your twenty pounds,” says 
Boyer. 44 The sooner you get that maggot out of your 
head the better.” 

“You know more about these things than I do, 
Squire. What’s the way to go about it? I’ll do it, 
ah ! if it was to cost me thirty pound.” 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


129 


“ It won’t cost you that,” Boyer answered. “ I 
should think an expert would give you his opinion for 
a ten-pound note at the outside. You’d better save 
your money,” he added contradictorily. 

“I’m all for justice,” said Isaac, and curiously enough 
he thought he was so. “You tell me wheer I am to 
get a letter wrote to, and I’ll get that letter wrote, and 
wrote to-night, without a post’s delay.” 

And now, if Messrs. Reinemann and Mac Wraith 
j should have been acting unfairly, all manner of un- 
pleasant consequences loom ahead. The oddest part 
of the whole business will be that the ignorant guess 
of an angry blockhead exposes a rascality of which 
no clever and learned person amongst the blockhead’s 
neighbors had done so much as dream. 


130 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


CHAPTER XII. 

Isaac Stringer walked home from Thorbury Church 
that day the proud possessor of a torn and used en- 
velope, on the inside surface of which the Squire had, 
with his own hand, pencilled the address of a famous 
bookseller and bibliographic expert in Piccadilly, Lon- 
don. He contemplated the half-crumpled and time- 
soiled paper with a hearty inward satisfaction. The 
shiny hat on his dogmatic big head indulged in a 
perfect series of gymnastics as, in his mental excite- 
ment, he. shook and re-shook it from one position to 
the other. He was as tenacious as a bulldog of any 
argument he adopted, and having once allowed the 
possibility of dishonorable action on the part of the 
Rector, the uncertainty grew to probability, and from 
that leaped with a fierce bound to certainty. 

“ What an ass I was not to have see’d it afore ! 
That’s wheer the money’s come from. And he a-pre- 
tending to be that high-minded, and that generous, and 
that Self-sacrificing, and do it all for the glory o’ the 
Church. Not him. You’ve hit it, Isaac Stringer. 
You’ve hit it on the nail, that you have. He’s sold 
th’ ode book, and I’m just goin’ to show it all up, and 
let the parish know what a son o’ Belial that theer bed- 
gownin’ Rector’s turned out to be.” 

He was fully convinced, before he had walked many 
hundred yards, that Dr. Hay was the guiltiest of men, 
untrue to his charge, steeped in the practices of Moloch, 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


131 


and endeavoring to conceal behind a bland and smooth 
countenance the grimaces of a Papist culprit to whom 
a Protestant Bible, hallowed by the use of centuries 
within the House of God, conveyed no idea of sacred- 
ness, but simply represented so many pounds, shillings, 
and pence to be expended upon his own sacrilegious 
fancies, according to the promptings of Beelzebub and 
similar weird personages. But he had him by the heels 
this time, the wicked, scandalous impostor. He had 
but to write to the great expert in London, and the 
trick would be exposed, and all the parish would be 
indebted to him, Isaac Stringer, for having opened 
their eyes. 

It never for a moment entered Stringer’s mind that 
the great expert might, after all, pronounce the book in 
the church to be the real genuine article. He had thor- 
oughlyhammered it into his obstinate mind that the book 
was a forgery — a bare-faced imitation — and a bare-faced 
imitation it had to be. The Rector’s guilt was as plain 
as daylight, and when he stood at his own door and 
the latch clicked under his hand, he came to be filled 
with a sort of placid wonder at his own credulity in 
not having suspected it before. 

He set down his hat on the little round table in the 
corner of the front parlor with the conscious assurance 
of being about to undertake a work of stern duty, and, 
as usual, when he felt that he was doing his duty, he 
imagined that he had to be surly to himself and to 
everybody else. Duty and pleasantness were as incom- 
patible to Stringer’s mind as acid and alkali are to the 
chemist. He began his task by shouting “ Many ” in 
as gruff a voice as he could command ; and the second 
call brought the girl bounding to the door, looking 


THE BISHOPS i BIBLE. 


132 

with frightened eyes for the cause of her father’s 
annoyance. Something had gone wrong, that was cer- 
tain. Something was not dusted cleanly enough, his 
favorite pipe had been removed from its accustomed 
place, one of the quaint bits of Staffordshire pottery 
which stood on the mantel-shelf had fallen down, and 
was broken ; and any one of these was enough to cause 
the rest of the day to be marked with tears in Mary’s 
calendar — the poor girl knew that well enough. 

“ Why canst not come when I call thee ? ” shouted 
Stringer. 

“ I did come, father, the moment I heard you.” 

“ Sit down, theer,” enjoined the irascible parent, feel- 
ing that perhaps, after all, Mary had not committed any 
very special sin at that moment. He softened a little 
in his tone, and, though it was but just a little, the 
girl’s practised ear caught the change immediately. 
“ Tek your pen an’ paper,” he continued, pointing to 
the inkstand on the sideboard, “and write as I tell 
thee.” 

Mary obeyed tremblingly. What was that letter to 
be about ? Close to her heart lay the epistle in which 
her brother announced his speedy departure for fields of 
battle in the Far East. Was her father about to com- 
mand her to write to Joseph? From his tone it was 
bound to be a cruel, unforgiving, unfatherly letter. 
Her fears were eased, however, when Stringer, standing 
behind her and looking over her shoulder, tapping with 
his big, fat forefinger by the side of the sheet of paper she 
had placed in front of herself, evidently searching for a 
mode of commencing the letter, blustered out : 

“ 4 Sir, Squire Boyer has given me your name and 
address.’ ” 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


133 


Mary’s heart felt as if a load of granite had been re- 
moved from it, and her fingers, which had been trembling, 
became steadier. 

44 4 I want you to come down here,’ ” continued 
Stringer, accentuating each word with a thump of his 
finger on the table, and disconcerting Mary awfully by 
so doing, 44 ‘and look at an old Bible as is chained up in 
the church here, and tell me if it’s a real old Bible, or 
one o’ them new-fangled counterfeits.’ What art thee 
writin’ ? ” he shouted : 44 I said one o’ them new-fangled 
counterfeits.” 

Mary looked up at her father pleadingly. 

44 I can’t put 4 one o’ them new-fangled counterfeits,’ ” 
she said ; 44 1 have put 4 modern imitations.’ ” 

44 That’s it,” growled Stringer. 44 That’s what comes 
of them teachin’s of the Rector’s. It’s the children 
what corrects the father now.” 

He knew, however, full well that Mary’s corrections 
of style would be right and proper, and therefore made 
pretence of swallowing a just wrath, and to be actuated 
by a spirit of forgiveness which was wholly strange to 
his character, and did not for one moment impose upon 
Mary. 

44 Go on,” he cried, seating himself in a chintz-covered 
arm-chair some two or three yards behind the girl; 44 go 
on, and write what I tell you. 4 1 am willing to pay 
your fair and legal charges and expenses up to thirty 
pound, and I hope that it can be done for the money, 
and that you can come down at once, as the matter is 
hurgent.’ ” 

He noticed that Mary had left out the h , and passed 
that act of petty rebellion in silence. The missive was 
signed and addressed, and he held it in his hand tenderly, 


134 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


gingerly, as an amateur might handle a valuable print 

“ And mind thee what,” he said to Mary, as he put 
on his hat, and made ready to go to the post-office. 
“ Mind you keep a close tongue in your head. I don’t 
want the parson to know nothin’ about this — not till 
the time comes.' Dost hear ? ” 

“ Yes, father,” replied Mary. 

“ None o’ your blabbering with th’ ode women.” 

“ No, father.” 

“That’s enough. You can go.” 

“Yes, father.” 

He felt happy for the moment. He had done his 
duty, and had done it in as unpleasant a manner as even 
he could do it, and he was prepared to continue in that 
course of action as long as breath would hold in his 
body. 

Whilst Isaac Stringer was walking along the High 
Street towards the little grocer’s shop where Her 
Majesty’s post-office was ensconced behind flour barrels 
and boxes of lump sugar, carrying in his hand the mis- 
sive which was charged with so much danger for the 
occupant of the Rectory, an epistolary bomb-shell, not 
of his manufacture, whizzed into and exploded in his 
own household. 

Mary, after her father’s departure, sat herself down 
by the open parlor window, looking with wistful eyes 
after his figure as it disappeared at the turning of the 
deserted High Street. She wondered, in her unsus- 
picious, girlish mind, what that epistle of her father’s 
meant, and why he had been so peremptory in com- 
manding her silence on the subject. Why should not 
the Rector know that her father had doubts about the 
genuineness of the book, which everybody in the village 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


135 


believed so sacred, not only by its own origin, but by the 
memories of ages ? If the book had been tampered with 
by anybody, surely the Rector ought to be the first per- 
son to know. Whatever her father’s faults might have 
been to others, in her eyes he had few. And to coun- 
teract them he was, to her, the incarnation of many 
virtues, honest, uncompromising straightforwardness 
being his chief. He was a little unkind now and then, 
she admitted, and would speak his mind with cruel and 
unjust harshness at times ; but she had never known 
him to conceal aught before. As she sat there, with 
her little brain whirling with these conflicting thoughts, 
she noticed a dapper figure sauntering leisurely on the 
other side of the street, and yes — surely it was — yes, 
it was Mr. Cornelius Badger. He had not yet left the 
village, then. Mary’s heart beat faster, and she felt her 
face grow cold and white as she saw him lift his tall 
hat with what appeared to her an incomparable grace. 
Was there anybody in Thorbury who could lift his hat 
like that? Mr. Frank Boyer, possibly, but she had 
never seen him do it so well. But then Mr. Frank 
Boyer was not in Thorbury, and he would not have 
lifted his hat to her with that perfect gentlemanly ele- 
gance. Mr. Frank Boyer would have nodded to her 
kindly, and said, “How do you do, Miss Stringer?” 
with that hale, bright voice of his. His greeting always 
was very nice and pleasing, but he could never have 
made her fingers tingle at the ends, and her little ears 
burn as they did just then. 

Mr. Cornelius Badger, totally unaware of the small 
conflagration which he had kindled in that maidenly 
heart, and yet all the while determinedly desirous of 
making a favorable impression, replaced his hat, grinned 


136 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


complacently, and nodded his head in a rapid motion 
very similar to that of a porcelain mandarin which has 
received a sudden smart tap. This Mr. Corney Badger 
intended to express his extreme pleasure at beholding 
Miss Stringer. Mary thought herself in duty bound to 
make some sort of silent reply, and dropped a stately 
countrified courtesy which, as she sat behind a high 
window-sill, was nearly totally lost upon Mr. Cornelius. 
The young man, however, believed instinctively that it 
conveyed to him some kind of encouragement, and 
made bold to cross the road. As he approached, Mary 
felt the blood mantle to her cheeks, but she bit her lip, 
and in a moment was as calm and self-possessed, to 
outward appearances at any rate, as any woman of the 
world might have been under similar circumstances. 
The young man stood by the window and again raised 
his hat with one hand, whilst in the palm of the other 
he concealed a letter which he allowed to slip from the 
window-sill into Mary’s lap. 

“ I hope you will forgive the liberty, Miss Stringer,” 
he said, with a smile which to the girl seemed ineffable. 
“I have written in that letter what I feel. Miss 
Stringer, you may believe it or you may doubt it, for 
I have not done anything to deserve your confidence; 
but if I were to conceal it any longer I should liexplode 
with the fire of it.” 

Cornelius had studied and repeated that speech to 
himself full forty and more times, and he did not feel 
quite sure when he had delivered it that he had got it 
off in its full vigor and rhetorical beauty. He had 
written and rewritten it on scraps of paper until he had 
admitted to himself that it excelled in that brevity 
which is the soul of wit, and yet boasted of a pathetic 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


137 


eloquence which should go straight to the beloved one’s 
heart. He was very proud of that phrase, “ he should 
hexplode with the fire of it,” and considered himself 
quite an embryo Milton on the strength of it. 

Poor Mary, with that letter in her lap, felt herself a 
sort of Eve, to whom the serpent had just dropped the 
historical apple. She knew it was very wrong of her 
to receive that letter, and before even Mr. Badger had 
finished his speech she held it between her fingers, with 
the intention of returning it unopened to the young 
man. The latter, looking in the direction where Mr. 
Isaac Stringer had disappeared, suddenly raised his hat, 
this time with less studied grace than before, and 
walked away rapidly before Mary could give expression 
to her thoughts. The vision of paternal boots at the 
end of Mr. Stringer’s legs rapidly approaching Mr. 
Stringer’s residence had had this spontaneous and 
magical effect upon Mr. Cornelius Badger. Mary, 
guessing from the young man’s manner that something 
was wrong, peered carefully out of the window, and 
saw that her father was returning from the post-office. 
She was a generally truthful, honest, and virtuously 
minded girl, and her conscience told her that she ought 
to hand that letter, addressed to her by a perfect 
stranger, to her father. That, she knew, was the 
proper and maidenly course which lay before her as 
plain as daylight. But there was a something that 
dragged at her skirts, that pinched her and diverted her 
thoughts, something that pulled at her sleeve and whis- 
pered with such soft, oily persuasion, “ Read that letter ! 
You ought to read that letter! You will so like to read 
that letter ! It will please you so much ! ” And Mary’s 
heart went palpitating, and she crumpled the letter 


188 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


between her little fingers and pushed it hastily into 
her pocket. And the great bell-like voice of conscience 
rang, “ Give that letter to your father ! ” and a little 
insinuating falsetto jingled through it and over it and 
soared , above it, “Keep it, read it by and by! It will 
be so nice.” And Mary’s fingers burned as they 
involuntarily crushed the letter in her pocket, and when 
the door swung open, and Mr. Isaac Stringer entered 
the parlor, the voice of the serpent had gained the day. 

“ What did that theer young jackanapes want a- 
standin’ at my winder? He was a-talkin’ to thee, was 
he?” 

Mary, catching a glimpse of herself in the glass oppo- 
site, saw that her face was ashen, and she could barely 
stammer, — 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ And what was he a-sayin’ to thee, if you please ? ” 
roared Mr. Stringer, setting down his hat on the table 
with a tap as an emphasis. “ What’s got a young man 
as nobody knows nothin’ about to be a-talkin’ to my 
gal for, as was brought up respectable and Christian- 
like, and to be a horniment to her sex?” 

Mary, shrinking back a step or two, replied trem- 
blingly : 

“ I don’t know, father.” 

“ Oh ! you don’t know, thee doesn’t. And how does 
he come a-comin’ here if he’s had no hencorridgement 
from thee ? ” 

“ I have not encouraged him,” whimpered Miss Mary ; 
“ I assure you I have not.” 

At this reply Mary felt just a trifle guilty, and if her 
father had appeared to her less loud-voiced and stern at 
that moment, she would have found it in her heart to 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


139 


give him the letter and to tell him the whole truth. 
But the bullying bluster frightened her, and her good 
purpose shrank back tremblingly, chilled by fear. 

“That’s just what women folks always says when 
Satan’s a-pullin’ them by the petticoats. It’s niver 
their fault — not they. If I catch that theer bag-o’- 
sticks a-runnin’ after thee agin, I’ll break every bone in 
his body ; and if I hear of thee as much as a-sayin’ 
1 good-morning ’ to him, I’ll lock you up in the washus 
for a week. Thee canst not tomfool me.” 

“ I’m not trying to deceive you, father,” whimpered 
Mary. And all the while that broad gong within her 
sounded deep and clear : “ Thou art deceiving him. 
Show him that letter ! ” And the fussy little high- 
pitched chime tinkled, “ Don’t, don’t, don’t ! Read it 
by and by.” Mary fought bravely, and, had but a flicker 
of Christian charity shone in her father’s face, probity 
would have been an easy victor. But it was not to be, 
and when the girl went to bed that night the tempter’s 
letter lay beneath her pillow, and she knew every word 
of it by heart. 


140 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The thorns of impatience pricked Mr. Stringer 
severely during the next two days. He was not a gen- 
erally impatient man, and he was perfectly aware that 
two clear days at least must elapse before he could 
have an answer from London ; but when the third morn- 
ing came, and then the fourth, and no letter was brought 
to him with his shaving water, he began to feel anxious 
about the result of his covert attack upon the Rector, 
and passed the rest of that day about the church and 
the vestry, taking many occasions to examine the sacred 
Book and to convince himself by arguments of his own 
that it was not the original old Bible. He was cute 
enough to make as little outward show as possible of his 
intention and opinion. The mine was laid, the fuse 
nearly ready, and he would explode it at the proper 
moment, and send Rector and Papistry floating towards 
realms unknown. He became quite a little nuisance to 
the workmen employed in the work of restoration. 
Carpenters, joiners, bricklayers alike suffered by his 
criticisms and interferences. He had made up his mind 
that nothing that was being done about the church was 
right, and he meant to show his disapproval to each and 
all concerned. It was late on the evening- of the fourth 

O 

day after the despatch of his own missive when the 
lean, lank, and limping lad who combined the offices of 
boy-of-all-work in the grocery shop with that of village 
postman, handed to Mr. Isaac Stringer a letter bearing 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


141 


the London postmark. The great London bookseller 
acknowledged the receipt of Mr. Stringer’s letter. 
“ My principal expert,” he added, “ is at this moment 
engaged in cataloguing and appraising Lord Wands- 
haugh’s library. I have written to him instructing him 
to call and see you, and you may expect a visit from 
him in the course of the next few days.” This was 
pleasant reading to Mr. Stringer, but what followed was 
at least equally agreeable. “ My charge for the services 
of the expert,” continued the letter, “ will not be thirty 
pounds, but merely five, with hotel and travelling ex- 
penses, which may be about three pounds more. I trust 
this arrangement will be satisfactory to you.” (Mr. 
Stringer thought it eminently satisfactory.) “ A written 
statement of opinion would cost you two guineas more.” 

Mr. Stringer thought that he could and would afford 
the two guineas. 

Mr. Stringer carried that letter about in his pocket as 
if it were a talisman to drive away the ills that flesh is 
heir to. He read it and re-read it a dozen times. On 
the following forenoon he rambled in the churchyard in 
the listless, aimless manner he had got accustomed to 
during the last few days, poking about the loose bricks 
and mortar and the piles of beams and broken wood- 
work, and he was shocked beyond measure to find that 
the carpenters had completely removed the front of the 
old oak presses which occupied the whole of one side of 
the vestry, and in which the service plate, the records of 
the church, and many other valuables were kept. He 
could see them there lying on the shelves. His ire was 
increased when Jonah came shambling into the place, 
and commenced to make a rough-and-tumble parcel of 
some of the articles. 


142 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


Mr. Stringer, standing with his hands behind his 
back, and pursing his lips, contemplated the young 
man’s doings, and was undecided in his mind whether 
the act that was being committed came under the de- 
nomination of sacrilege, burglary, or petty larceny. 

Jonah had brought quite a pile of unbleached sheets, 
and had with clumsy fingers made a clumsy bundle of a 
heterogeneous lot of things. He was in the act of pick- 
ing up the bundle and placing it lazily on his shoulder, 
when Mr. Stringer, shaking a threatening forefinger at 
him, and nearly speechless with rage, stopped him. 

“What’s that you’re doin’, Jonah Wood?” asked 
Mr. Stringer. 

The lad looked at him with a wry smile. He shoul- 
dered the bundle. 

“It hasn’t got nothin’ to do with thee, gaffer,” he 
replied, and moved towards the door. 

Isaac Stringer’s heavy hand gripped him by the arm. 

“ It hasn’t got nothin’ to do with me, hasn’t it ? ” he 
cried ; “ I ain’t churchwarden here, am I ? I’m nobody, 
am I ? I’m to stand by here and see a hulking, good-for- 
nothin’ lout as ought to ha’ bin in jail long ago, and will 
be theer afore long, I trow, a-walkin’ away with the 
church property right out o’ the church door, before 
the churchwarden, and the churchwarden, if you please, 
isn’t to hask no question about it ! ” 

With that he gave the young man’s arm a twist as 
though he would wrench it off, and sent him spinning 
and stumbling back into the middle of the vestry, where 
the bundle fell with a crash and a clatter on to the floor. 
Jonah stood before his bulky aggressor, and his eyes 
flashed. 

“Heer, gaffer, I say,” he exclaimed, “you’re a-goin’ 


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148 


just a bit too fur, and mark you, Mr. Stringer, church- 
warden though you be, I ain’t a-goin’ to stand thee nor 
no other man neither a-pullin’ and a-shakin’ me about 
when I ain’t doin’ nothin’ that’s wrong to nobody. I've 
got my borders, and you touch me agin as you did just 
now, and see what’ll come of it.” 

With that he doggedly prepared to pick up the bundle, 
casting glances of fury towards the equally furious 
Stringer. The latter, for all answer, walked to the 
vestry door and placed himself there with arms akimbo. 
In his ire he was totally oblivious of the fact that balrey 
six feet further on there was a hole in the wall through 
which three men might have walked with ease linked 
arm to arm. 

“ Oh,” he answered, “ thee’s got thy horders, and I’m 
not to touch thee agin or see what’ll come of it! I 
know what’ll come of it, Jonah Wood. You'll go to 
the gallows, Jonah Wood. That’ll be the hexpedition 
you’ll undertake.” He suddenly assumed an air of 
satirical politeness, and, taking off his hat, bowed with 
a burlesque imitation of courtesy. “ I’ve got to be very 
civil to thee, Jonah Wood, I suppose, else I might go 
and get hurt. I mustn’t touch thee, but I may hask 
thee a question. If you’ve got your borders, Jonah 
Wood, may I mek so bold as to inquire who give you 
your horders ? ” 

“ I’ve got my horders from Dr. Hay,” stubbornly re- 
plied Jonah, refusing to be appeased by Mr. Stringer’s 
satirical sally. “ That’s good enough for thee, gaffer, 
and don’t you stop me no more.” 

With that he picked up his bundle, while Stringer 
stood in the doorway grinding his teeth, rubbing his 
hands, and grinning savagely all the while. 


144 


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Jonah, I have no doubt, knew nothing of the threat 
of that English traveller who, being stopped by the 
Custom-House officer of a petty German principality, 
told the obstinate official that he would not pay the 
amount of toll demanded, but would drive round his 
little State. Jonah saw that the door was blocked by 
the burly presence of Isaac Stringer, and he felt 
sure that Mr. Stringer meant fight. Now, Jonah, al- 
though he had often proved himself plucky enough in 
pugnacious contests with lads of his own kind, felt no 
desire to engage in fisticuffs with the churchwarden 
of the parish. He knew that in such an encounter he 
was sure to come off second best, though at that moment 
he was only doing his duty and carrying out the Rector’s 
instructions. He eyed Mr. Stringer up and down, from 
his gyrating hat to his cleanly blacked boots, and then, 
with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, walked to 
and through the opening at the further end of the ves- 
. try out into the churchyard. 

Everybody knows that the proverbial camel’s prover- 
bial back was broken by the proverbial straw. The 
reader is already aware that Jonah was no favorite of 
Mr. Stringer’s. The dogmatic warden of Thorbury 
Church always looked upon himself as a perfect model 
of patience and Christian forbearanoe, and in his pres- 
ent intercourse with the defiant Jonah, he imagined him- 
self actuated by the most exemplary spirit of judicial 
impartiality. But when Jonah impudently declined to 
force his way past him, and, after the manner of the 
just quoted traveller, calmly walked round him, Mr. 
Stringer felt that the cup of bitterness was overflowing, 
and that he was in duty bound to resent the insult 
added to injury. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


145 


Jonah, with his long stride, had already got a good 
dozen yards ahead when he felt Mr. Stringer’s thick 
fingers inserting themselves between his neck-handker- 
chief and his neck, and twisting that useful wrap so that 
it became a most dangerous article of clothing. At the 
same time he felt himself pulled and tugged at so vi- 
ciously that the bundle escaped from his grasp and again 
lay upon the ground. Assaulted from behind in this 
uncompromising fashion, he defended himself after the 
manner of village lads, and kicked out vigorously. 
Jonah’s feet were big, and his boots were bigger, and 
they were iron-clumped, and hob-nailed, and they made 
a painful impression upon Mr. Stringer’s shins. The 
burly man’s shiny hat went spinning against a slanting 
gravestone, ricocheted thence, and rolled along the 
ground into a mass of wet mortar. Mr. Isaac was re- 
luctantly compelled to relinquish his hold upon the das- 
tardly offender, who stood rubbing his neck and arrang- 
ing his neck-cloth in surly silence, whilst his aggressor 
went to pick up his injured head-gear. 

“ Wait thee a bit,” cried Stringer, removing the 
mortar from the shiny silk fur, “ wait thee a bit. I’ll 
teach thee respect for thy elders and civility to your 
superiors.” 

“ You can’t teach me what you haven’t got yourself, 
gaffer,” growled Jonah. “Nobody never accused thee 
of being civil to no man, or woman neither.” 

Stringer was just in the act of making another dash 
at the lad when he saw the tall figure of Dr. Hay at the 
lych-gate. The Rector had evidently been a witness of 
a portion, at least, of the scene that had just passed. 

“ Dear me ! dear me ! ” said Dr. Hay, walking towards 
them with rapid strides. “ Why, Stringer, what’s the 


146 


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matter? What is the matter? And, Jonah, what have 
you been doing ? ” 

“The matter?” roared Stringer, busily engaged in a 
futile attempt to restore its pristine gloss to his dam- 
aged hat. “ That theer great red dragon with its seven 
heads and its ten horns was as nothing to the wicked- 
ness that’s goin’ on here now, and you approving of 
it, and encouraging of it, and a-horderin’ of it.” 

“ I don’t understand you, my dear Stringer,” said the 
Rector, with a smile. “ I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ Aren’t them the holy things of the church ? ” cried 
the churchwarden, pointing with outstretched finger to 
the open presses. “ Isn’t they the property of the 
church, and of the church honly, to be kept clean and 
whole for them as is to follow after us ? ” 

“ Quite so, Stringer, quite so,” answered Dr. Hay as 
blandly as before. 

“ And aren’t they a-lying theer in the dust and in the 
dirt, and you goin’ so fur as actually removing ’em from 
the premises that is sacred to them as is not.” 

“ Why, Stringer,” said the Rector, good-humoredly, 
“ I was only going to have them taken to the Rectory to 
prevent their being soiled or damaged while the most 
pressing repairs are proceeding.” 

“ And you do this,” continued the irate Stringer, in 
a tone where satire was intended to mingle with suavity 
and offended courtesy, “you do this, sir, without 
a-haskin’ with your leave nor by your leave. The 
churchwardens is nobody, and the parish is nobody, and 
all the people in it is nobody, the Squire included.” 

“ My good man,” said Dr. Hay, in a voice which be- 
trayed just the faintest suspicion of offended dignity, 
“ if I had thought that you wanted to be consulted in 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


147 


this matter, or that the matter was worth a consultation, 
I should certainly have asked your consent. I do not 
say that I concede to you the right of insisting on such 
a point, but I wish to live in peace with my neighbors, 
and since the removal of these things offends you, they 
shall not be removed, and I will take care that they are 
properly guarded and kept from harm in their original 
places in the vestry. Jonah ! ” he called, and the young 
man approached. “ Take the sheets,” he continued, 
“ and carefully cover with them the front of the presses 
which are now open. Wrap up all articles which are 
likely to be damaged by dust, and remain in the vestry 
to watch over them. I am afraid, my lad, you will have 
to remain there all to-day and all night at the least. I 
will send you your meals from the kitchen. This ar- 
rangement,” he said to Stringer, with a studied ceremony 
which was entirely strange to him, “ will, I trust, sat- 
isfy you.” 

The churchwarden, taken aback both by the Rector’s 
manner and by his course of action, listened in unsatis- 
fied silence. 

“ I have only one thing to add, Stringer,” continued 
the Rector, and this time his voice was stern. “ If it 
should happen again that you should feel yourself 
called upon to object to any action of mine, I must beg 
of you that you will come to me and state your objec- 
tion without interfering with my servants.” 

This speech roused Mr. Isaac from his seeming- 
lethargy. He clapped the hat which he had been wip- 
ing carefully on his head, and stood glaring at the Rec- 
tor, with his legs wide apart and his hands folded across 
his back. 

“ Hey de dee, diddle dee ! ” he exclaimed. “ It’s a 
sermon on a week-day,” 


148 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“ Week-da}^ is as good as any day,” replied Dr. Hay, 
“ when the truth has to be spoken. A churchwarden 
brawling with a lad like that in the open churchyard is 
a sorry spectacle, let me tell you, Stringer, and one 
which I hope I shall never see again.” 

Dr. Hay was known to be so mild, so conciliating in 
his manner, and in all his intercourse with the domi- 
neering Stringer he had been so generally submissive, 
that this speech struck the burly man like a blow from 
a sledge-hammer, and left him speechless, with mouth 
agape and staring eyes. 

In the meantime the Rector had walked away and 
disappeared behind the further end of the church, where 
other repairs were proceeding. 

u Well, I niver ! ” exclaimed Stringer, when he had at 
last recovered the faculty of speech ; “ I niver in all my 
born days, niver, niver ! He a-settin’ of himself up for 
to lecture me. He a-pretendin’ to be arrayed in the fine 
linen what’s righteousness. But what says the Scrip- 
ture ? 4 The wicked is snared in the work of his own 

hands.’ Ay, ay.” 

Mr. Stringer, being unacquainted with the Eliza- 
bethan dramatists, was equally unacquainted with the 
famous phrase about the devil citing Holy Writ. He 
watched with boiling inward anger whilst Jonah, his 
face ablaze with the broadest of grins, set slowly and 
measuredly to work to carry out the Rector’s instruc- 
tions. 

Stringer felt that in this encounter with the parson 
he had been far from victorious, but he consoled himself 
with the thought that the hour of vengeance was fast 
approaching. 

The expert could reach Thorbury by any of the four 


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149 


local trains which stopped at the village station, and 
three times in the course of the day Mr. Stringer per- 
formed a pilgrimage holy to revenge, and tramped up 
and down the little platform for full a quarter of an 
hour previous to the arrival of each train, without 
meeting the object of his search. 

It was late in the evening already, and the twilight 
was drawing to its close. The last train did not reach 
Thorbury until eleven o’clock at night, and Stringer had 
made up his mind to go and meet that also. He was 
sitting by his open parlor window, and Mary was knit- 
ting, straining her ej^es in the semi-darkness of the 
room, fearful of saying a word lest she should rouse her 
father’s anger, when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was 
heard at the further end of the village street, and a dog- 
cart came rattling over the rough stones and stopped at 
Stringer’s door. 

“ That’s the place, sir,” said the driver, who wore the 
livery of one of the neighboring gentry. “ That’s Mr. 
Stringer’s house — Bully Stringer we calls him — and 
there he is, to be sure, at his window.” 

“ Thank you for nothin’,” retorted Mr. Stringer, being 
thus addressed. “ Thank you for nothin’ for an impu- 
dent lout. I’ll tell your master when I see him how 
you speak of your betters.” 

“ Pray, don’t mind him, sir,” said the elderly gentle- 
man who had just descended from the cart. “ You are 
the Mr. Stringer, I suppose, who has written to London 
for a bibliographic expert? ” 

All memory of past injury, of recent insult, was 
wiped clean from Stringer’s mind at these words, which 
fell upon him like a soothing balm. He flew, rather 
than ran, to the door which he opened with such re- 


150 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


dundant courtesy that Mary looked around the room in 
silent wonder. 

44 I drove over here from Castle Barfield,” continued 
the gentlemen. 44 A friend of mine lives there, and I 
thought I would see him on my road.” 

He was a lean little man with long whitish-gray beard 
and mustache and thin white hair. His clear gray 
eyes looked straight at Stringer and seemed to pierce 
him through and through. He was dressed in a black 
cloth frock-coat and trousers, and a white pique waist- 
coat, and wore a broad soft felt hat, which gave a rather 
Bohemian aspect to his otherwise dignified appearance. 
To Mr. Stringer he looked eminently learned and authori- 
tative, his head being the exact counterpart of a small 
round picture of an unnamed saint, in a big gold frame, 
which Mr. Stringer had bought at an auction in Bir- 
mingham, and prized as a sort of art wonder, it being 
all the while neither more nor less than the top of a 
German snuff-box. In the gladness of his heart Stringer 
could not help glancing at the spot where he knew the 
picture was hanging, but the fading light prevented 
him from comparing the living actuality with the 
portrait. 

44 You are welcome, sir,” he exclaimed, 44 as welcome 
as I can mek you. We are homely people and this is 
a homely house ; but theer’s a bedroom on the first floor 
as I reckon you’ll be able to sleep in comfortable. 
Light a candle, Mary, and let Sam take the gentleman’s 
bag up stairs. Maybe you’re tired, sir, and I reckon ” 
— this with a faint hope that the expert might negative 
it — 44 it’s too late to-day, and too dark, to look at the 
book now.” 

44 1 am afraid, sir, my eyes are not as good as they 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


151 


used to be, and if there is a doubt on the subject 
about which you wish me to express an opinion, I 
would prefer daylight for my purpose.” 

“You’re right, sir,” replied Stringer; “and then 
perhaps it would be better if the Rector were theer 
as well when you tell them that his book’s a swindle.” 

“Oh, oh, oh, oh! ” exclaimed the old man. “May I 
ask to what book you are referring ? ” 

“ To the Bible in Thorbury Church, what’s suppposed 
to be the real one ; hunderds and hunderds o’ years old, 
and it ain’t so ode as I or you are, sir, and ain't nothin’ 
more than a fraud and a sham.” 

“ Are you speaking of the Thorbury Bishops’ Bible, 
sir?” asked the expert. “I had that book in my hands 
more than forty years ago, and I can state authorita- 
tively that it is a genuine copy on vellum, one of the 
only three perfect ones known.” 

“That’s just it,” cried Stringer. “It was the genuine 
ode Bible forty years ago right enough, afore this new 
Rector come into the parish ; but you look at it to- 
morrow mornin’, and you see if it’s the same. If it is 
I’ll eat my head. That Papist parson has swopped it, 
and I mek bold to say so to you.” 

“ I know Dr. Hay,” replied the expert quietly, “ both 
by reputation and by intercourse, and I know him to be 
absolutely incapable of an unrighteous action. You 
seem to suspect him, and, in this case, I must claim to 
be allowed to write to him to make a formal appoint- 
ment for the purpose of this examination.” 

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Dr. Hay returned 
to the Rectory from a visit to a dying parishioner. On 
the hall table he found a letter addressed to himself, 
and opened it. 


152 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


“ Dear Sir,” it ran, “ I have been asked by Mr. Isaac Stringer 
to examine the Bishops 1 Bible in your church. Mr. Stringer 
expresses an opinion that the genuine work has been removed 
from the lectern, and exchanged for a modern imitation. Will 
you favor me with an appointment at your convenience to-morrow 
morning, that I may make the required examination, and report? 
I am staying at Mr. Stringer’s house. 

“I am, dear sir, yours faithfully, 

Martin White.” 

The letter slipped from the Rector’s hand. 

“ What can it mean ? ” he breathed. “ What can it 
mean ? ” 

There was a great eight-foot window at the further 
end of the hall, which led -into the lawn, and as Dr. 
Hay looked out he saw a curious red flicker against the 
black, moonless sky. He rubbed his eyes in wonder as 
the glow seemed to grow and spread. 

Suddenly there rang through the night a cry of 
“Fire! fire! The church is on fire!” And Dr. Hay, 
gasping for breath, sank down on the oaken hall 
chair. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


153 


CHAPTER XIV. 

There was only one person who was really happy 
over the result of the encounter between Mr. Stringer 
and the Rector, and that person was Jonah Wood. He 
enjoyed not only the comfortable recollection of having 
kicked the doughty churchwarden’s shins — a thought 
which was equal in value to a good many pints of old 
ale to him — but he had been privileged to stand by 
and see Mr. Stringer “sat upon and squashed,” as he 
afterwards expressed it, by Dr. Hay. The temporary 
discomfiture of the pugnacious Stringer was ambrosial 
meat and Olympian drink to him, and his little soul 
soared to the realms of popular song to express its 
extreme momentary happiness. Jonah had not a bad 
voice, but his ideas of time and tune were of the most 
peculiar. He went to work at his pile of sheets, grin- 
ning and sniggering, winking with his left eye as he 
looked over his shoulder at his rotund adversary, whilst 
the latter bad-temperedly paced up and down the church- 
yard. Suddenly he burst out into a stave of the old 
song, which he entuned to a variation of his own, — 

“ Theer wos a fair may-den what lived in a bow-urr, 

That may-den wos lovely to see. 

She wos sweet as a happle an’ red as a flow-urr, 

An’ she loved a young man — and he’s me.” 

At the first sound of Jonah’s voice, Mr. Stringer 
made a movement of impatience. Song of any kind 


154 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


excepting that of the church was ribald and offensive 
to Mr. Stringer’s ears, and a piano was to him a palpable 
evidence of ungodliness in the family that possessed it. 
But he happened for the moment to be all brooding 
meekness, all martyrized expectation of a justice to 
come, and he looked upon the infliction of Jonah’s 
untuneful effusion as a spice to the enjoyment of the 
victory which could not fail soon to be his. Therefore 
he simply scowled at the offender. He did not care by 
his presence to endorse the scandal of musical doggerel 
within the precincts of the church, and, therefore, 
walked away, casting angry glances back at Jonah. 

Jonah, being thus left victor in possession of the field 
of battle, soon completed his easy task, and then 
stretched himself full length upon a lichen-covered 
tombstone outside the vestry door, and lay there in full 
enjoyment of the glorious summer sun. Jonah’s idea 
of watch and duty were primitive enough in their way, 
and really there was no great need for strict guard, as 
not a soul entered the churchyard but those employed 
there, and not one of these would have dreamed of 
touching any of the valuables entrusted to Jonah’s care- 
The day was passed by the lad in the alternate occupa- 
tions of munching his bread and meat, and drinking his 
ale, and lying half asleep in the sunshine. The young 
man, having nothing whatever to do, got tired of his 
occupation before the evening came, and hungered, in his 
slow mind, for more stirring employment of his time. 

It was six o’clock when the workmen left their task. 
The carpenters had taken down a lot of the old oak 
seating of the church, and had made a pile of it against 
the altar railings, reaching from the centre of the vestry to 
within a yard or two of the lectern. The carved old oak 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


155 


panelling had also been removed from the chapel and 
stacked at the other side of the church, some of the long 
pieces leaning against the oak supports of the gallery. 
Inside the vestry the painters had made a heap of their 
utensils and materials. Cans of turpentine and oil, 
brushes and paints, were laid in promiscuous confusion 
against Master Jonah’s sheets, and the sacred building 
and its contiguous premises presented the aspect of a 
storehouse. It gradually became darker, and Jonah, 
having been told that his watch would have to continue 
through the night, sat himself on the floor with his back 
against the pile of oak panelling, and, producing a torn 
and soiled out-of-time copy of Bell’s Life in London, 
began the task of deciphering the description of a prize 
fight recorded there. Jonah was not an adept in the 
art of reading, and somehow or other he attributed the 
slow progress he made to the fading light. Searching 
about the vestry cupboard, he unearthed half a tallow 
candle. This, with the addition of a bit of paper, he 
stuck into the nozzle of a can of turpentine standing 
by his side, and lighted it. The process of reading the 
record word for word was tedious, aud not in the least 
as inspiriting as Jonah expected it to be. Be it that 
Jonah’s rest during the previous night had not been 
such as an honest country lad ought to enjoy, or that 
his work during the day had extremely fatigued him, 
this deponent cares not to say ; but the fact remained 
that Jonah’s lids weighed heavily, and drooped, so that 
at last he stretched himself yawning on the floor, and 
dropped the dirty rag of a newspaper by his side. 
Jonah fell asleep, but his rest was far from tranquil, and 
he rolled from side to side and from one position to 
another with spasmodic movements of arms and legs. 


156 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


The tallow candle was still burning when the sudden 
contact of Jonah’s boot tipped over the can in which it 
was stuck, and it rolled, with the still flaming candle, 
against the vestry presses, covered as they were with 
Jonah’s sheets. The inflammable liquid trickled from 
the can between the interstices of the paper, and soon 
touched the flame of the candle itself. After a faint 
spluttering and hissing, it ignited with a resinous light, 
and communicated itself to the sheets on the presses. 
These in their turn caught the lurid infection, and the 
fire crept along them, slowly at first; then, fanned by 
the draught which came through the open church win- 
dows, it crept and leaped sideways and upwards with 
ever-increasing speed and destruction. The fierce ele- 
ment snaked and rolled around the old dry woodwork 
which was stacked in piles here and there. Its red 
tongues licked it and set it ablaze, and the vestry had 
become a roaring furnace before Jonah, starting in a 
fright out of his sleep, saw, with glaring eyes and hair 
standing on end, the mischief his wicked carelessness 
had wrought. Utterly helpless in the presence of the 
devouring element, he could do nothing but howl like a 
fiend or like a frightened beast. Although the brook 
was so near, the idea of attempting to extinguish the 
flames never entered his muddled brain, and he started 
to run towards the village, crying “ Fire ! fire ! fire ! ” 
at the top of his voice. 

At the back of Stringer’s house there was a ram- 
shackle garden in which a ramshackle summer-house 
had been rendered lovely by beautifying Nature with her 
bounteous greenery and her glorious wealth of blossom. 
The night, though dark, was balmy. Mr. Stringer, 


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157 


having found Mr. White’s conversation of the mast con- 
genial, edifying, and instructive, and having discovered 
in him an authoritative manner before which he bowed, 
invited the old gentleman to join him in a smoke and 
a glass of toddy in the garden before retiring to rest. 
The old scholar produced from his travelling-bag a 
quaint old German pipe, with long cherrywood stem 
and bone mouthpiece, and with a big, long, porcelain 
bowl, on which the arms of a Burschenschaft were por- 
trayed in red and gold. This luxurious miracle of a 
smoking utensil became an object of admiration on the 
part of Stringer, and for once in his life he acknowl- 
edged that anything outlandish could be useful and 
salubrious. Somehow or other Mr. White, like Caesar, 
had come, been seen, and had conquered. If it were the 
expectation of the service to come, or the old gentle- 
man’s native scholarly grace — something or other had 
made him a favorite in Stringer’s eyes immediately after 
his arrival. The churchwarden went so far as with his 
own hands to brew his guest’s toddy. The two were 
sitting in the summer-house, sipping their liquor and 
smoking their pipes in the tranquil night air, when 
Stringer, looking out across the back of his garden 
towards the little eminence where Thorbury Church 
was visible in the daytime behind its surrounding trees, 
saw a reddish light dancing in the darkness there. 

“ Strange ! ” he said to his companion ; “ theer 
oughtn’t to be no light theer. I wonder if that Jonah 
is up to some o’ them tricks o’ his again.” 

The little scintillating point grew and flickered and 
flashed, and a bright halo like that of a red Bengal fire 
spread around it and became visible between the foliage 
of Thorbury Churchyard. 


158 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


44 Good gracious me ! ” exclaimed Stringer ; 44 what 
can it be ? Theer’s something wrong, I vow. Theer’s 
nobody livin’ theer.” 

He started up on a sudden. 

44 It’s fire ! ” he cried ; “ the church is afire ! Here, 
Sam, Mary ! shout, run ! The church is afire ! the 
church is afire ! ” 

At the same moment confused noises grew upon the 
ear from the street without. The drowsy village became 
alive with sound. Voices calling, crying, shouting, yell- 
ing, resounded through the stillness of the night, and 
from the distance the rattling of horses’ hoofs and the 
rumbling of wheels could be heard distinctly. 

“ We’ll go an’ see what’s a-comin’ of it, sir,” said 
Stringer to his guest, who had returned with him to the 
parlor. 44 This is a bad job, and no mistake. I’m 
sorry — ” He stopped in the middle of his speech and 
looked at Mr. White with a strange expression, in which 
perplexity mingled with obstinate hate. “ Do you 
know what strikes me, sir ? ” he said. “ I’m a Chris- 
tian man, I hope, and I don’t make no charges as I 
don’t think is right and proper and my duty to make. 
But let me remind you, sir, and let me ask you, sir, to 
make a note on it, so as to remember it if you’re basked 
in a court o’ justice, that you wrote to the Rector nigh 
on two hours ago, telling him that you’ve come to look 
at that theer Bible.” 

44 Well ! very well ! ” replied the expert. 44 What has 
that to do with me ? ” 

44 It has this to do,” continued Stringer, 44 that now 
the church is afire, an’ that Bible chained to the lectern 
in it, an’ most likely burned to a cinder afore this.” 

The old man gripped Stringer by the arm. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


159 


“ Surely you don’t suggest,” he exclaimed, “ that Dr. 
Hay has committed arson for the purpose of destroyingr 
that book ? ” 

“ I don’t suggest nothin',” retorted Stringer. “ Onty 
them’s the facts. Theer’s the hevidence, and on the 
rights an’ wrongs of it a jury will have to decide.” 

Mr. Stringer was not the kind of man to keep his 
thoughts and impressions to himself, and long before he 
and his companion had reached Thorbury Church, 
which was by that time well ablaze, he had communi- 
cated the contamination of his ideas to sundry and 
various of Dr. Hay’s opponents. 

A little group was standing in Thorbury Churchyard 
by the burning church, and apart from the rest of the 
villagers, when Stringer arrived there. There was the 
Rector, bare-headed and pale-faced, his clothing ragged, 
burned, and torn by his efforts to rescue the church 
property. There was Habakkuk in a similar plight. A 
little apart stood Ophelia and Mrs. Hay, trembling and 
wringing their hands, and with them Squire Boyer, 
having momentarily forgotten his quarrels and his 
anger in the common danger and distress, and speaking 
such words of comfort and solace as a British gentle- 
man can. A chain of men with buckets was toiling 
hard at the work of rescue, but the means at the dis- 
posal of the crowd for combat with the devouring ele- 
ment were so small that little hope could be entertained 
to save the ancient building. 

The guilty cause of all the mischief had been caught, 
and was guarded by the policeman, who kept his hand 
on the culprit’s ear with a vicious grasp, and explained 
from time to time to the inquiring villagers that in that 
young scamp they saw the destroyer of their church. 


160 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


Little knots of smock-frocked and gaitered men, and of 
shawl-covered women, young and old, stood idly by, 
gossiping as if the present incident were one of the 
commonest in the world. Bit by bit the crowd in- 
creased, and bit by bit the hum of voices swelled and 
rose, and on a sudden it seemed to take a strange and 
fiercer tone. Oaths and imprecations mingled with 
irate exclamations, in which the Rector’s name was 
bandied about freely and openly, and Dr. Hay, turning 
round to discover the cause of the turmoil, found him- 
self face to face with old Habakkuk, who was pointing 
a lean angry finger towards Isaac Stringer, who stood a 
few paces apart in burly, seething silence. 

“ Thee darest not tell him to his face,” cried the old 
sexton to Stringer, “ thee backbitin’ wiper. Thee never 
couldst tell none but lies about no man, an’ now thee 
darest even slander the parson hisself.” 

“ What’s the matter, Habakkuk ? ” asked Dr. Hay 
quietly. u What do you mean ? ” 

“Dost thee know,” replied the old man, in his wrath, 
“ what that theer fellow is sayin’ about thee ? ” 

“ What does he say, my good Habakkuk ? ’’asked Dr. 
Hay, with an amazed quiet, while all around became 
hushed, and every eye was peering towards the little 
group. 

“ Why, he’s a-sayin’,” continued the old man, writhing 
his arms excitedly in the air, “ he’s a-sayin’ that thee hast 
set fire to the church to burn th’ ode Bible what’s in it.” 

The Rector’s face turned gray, his hands trembled 
nervously, but his expression was that of majestic calm 
and dignity. Drawing himself up to his full height, he 
turned quietly to Stringer, who stood scowling doggedly 
at him, 'with his hands crossed behind his back. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


161 


“Is this old man speaking the truth, Stringer?” he 
asked, with the barest trace of emotion audible in his 
voice. 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” replied the burly man, with bull-dog 
obstinacy. 

“ You say,” continued Denis Hay, in the same calm, 
even voice, “ that I set fire to the holy church for the 
purpose of destroying the Bishops’ Bible ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” was again the dogged reply. 

The Rector made a step forward, and Squire Boyer 
rushed lo him and gripped his hand. 

“ Don’t take any notice of the meddlesome fool ! ” 
he cried. “ Hold your tongue, Stringer. How dare 
you ! If you repeat such a thing agin, I’ll throttle 
you, you mischief-making idiot ! ” 

A firm grip of the Rector’s ice-cold hand thanked him, 
and Doctor Hay’s outstretched arm waved him back. 

“ I must deal with this vile charge myself,” he said, 
with such truth and dignity pealing in his voice that 
it went straight to all hearts but one. “ I understand 
you, Stringer,” he continued; “you think me capable 
of burning that book to conceal a fraud.” 

There was no reply this time, but a mere assenting 
nod of the head. 

For a moment Dr. Hay’s eyes travelled appealingly 
over those around him, then, without a word, and before 
his friends could guess his intention or restrain him, he 
walked erect and silent into the blazing building. 

A dozen men flew after him, but it was too late, 
and all Boyer could do was to catch Mrs. Hay, who 
dropped with a shriek and in a faint into his arms, whilst 
Ophelia could with difficulty be kept from following 
her guardian. 


162 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


Dr. Hay was not, as we know, a popular favorite 
with many of his parishioners, and only a moment 
before their angry voices had risen into the night 
against him, but at the sight of that deed of derring-do 
their British sense of fairness smote straight home to 
their hearts. When half a minute afterwards the Rec- 
tor appeared again at the church door, black against the 
lurid glow of the conflagration, there arose such a shout 
of approval as made the night air ring with glad emotion. 
For a second or two the Rector staggered at the portal 
of the sacred edifice, his clothing singed and burning, 
his hair gone, his face swollen and red, his eyes closed, 
and in his hands the book which had been the cause of 
all this trouble. He reeled a step or two forward, and 
then fell on his face on the sward. In another moment 
the head of the drooping, fainting figure reclined on 
Boyer’s knee, whilst a dozen tender hands busied them- 
selves about him. Stringer stood by, shamefacedly, 
but as obstinate as ever. He picked up the Bible, 
which was lying on the grass, and handed it to the 
expert, who had been standing quietly behind him. 

“ Maybe you can tell me if that book’s right, sir,” 
he whispered. 

Mr. White looked at the churchwarden with a stony 
contempt, but he took the book, scorched as it was, 
and carried it into the light of the flaming building. 
He looked at it but for a second or two, and then 
handed it back to Stringer. 

“Well,” asked the latter, “what of it? ” 

“ It is a modern imitation,” replied the expert. 

Stringer turned a satisfied glance to the group which 
surrounded the still unconscious Rector. 

“ I knew it !•” he exclaimed. “ I knew it ! ” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


163 


CHAPTER XY. 

Dr. Hay lay in his darkened room at the Rectory. 
Loving hands had carried him thither, and gentle fin- 
gers were busy tending his wounds. He was tortured 
by intense pain ; the agony pearled on his red and 
singed brow, swathed as it partly was in cambric wrap- 
pings. A great surgeon had been telegraphed for from 
Birmingham, and had ordered absolute quiet. 

“Let them read to me, pray, doctor,” the Rector 
had pleaded. “ The hours are so long and the darkness 
so black.” 

The surgeon had consented after some hesitation, 
and a small, deeply shaded reading-lamp was placed 
behind a small screen by the bedside, and Mrs. Hay 
read with slow and trembling voice the words of the 
Psalmist. 

She came to the passage ; 

“They that would destroy me, being mine enemies 
wrongfully, are mighty: then I restored that .which I 
took not away.” 

A half-suppressed cry of agony surged from the 
sufferer’s lips. Mrs. Hay, with the tears running fast 
over her cheeks, rose, and took her husband’s burning 
hand. 

“ Try to sleep, my darling,” she said. “Try to sleep. 
My reading excites you.” 

“ The Bible ! The Bishops’ Bible ! ” the sufferer 
stammered hoarsely. 


164 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


“ Now, don’t, pray don’t,” Mrs. Hay insisted gently. 
“ I will not allow you so to distress yourself.” 

“ But I brought it out. I brought it out, my dear. 
Where is it? What has become of it? ” 

Each word was a cry of agony, each sentence an 
anguished appeal. 

Nobody knew. None about the house could tell 
what had become of the book. They hardly dared to 
tell him at first, but they knew that it could not be lost, 
and messengers were soon speeding all over the village 
to inquire after the missing volume. About half an 
hour afterwards one of the men returned, and Mrs. Hay 
was told that he brought news of the old Bible. She 
went out into the hall to see him. 

“ Muster Stringer,” said the man, “ he have got th’ 
ode book, an’ he do- say as he do not mean to give it 
up.” 

The patient’s anxious renewed inquiries forced them 
to tell him that Stringer held and declined to surrender 
the volume which the Rector had rescued from the 
flames at so great a cost. 

“ I am glad that it has been found,” the injured man 
whispered. “ I see no reason why he should not keep 
it, for the present at any rate. He will not injure it, 
that I know. He is obstinate, but not wicked.” 

The assurance that the book was safe seemed to ease 
the sufferer’s mind, and Sleep with her soothing fingers 
brought sweet rest and balmy forgetfulness to that 
couch of pain. 

Mr. Isaac Stringer had carried the volume home to 
his own house with the pride akin to that of a scientist 
who has wrested from Nature one of her secrets. 

Mary, who, according to good country custom, and 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


165 


town custom too, for that, ought to have been asleep 
hours before, had been kept awake, partly by the 
dramatic events of the night, and partly by the perusal, 
over and over repeated, of a second epistle from the 
elegant and love inspiring Mr. Cornelius Badger. She 
was sitting half dressed behind the little curtains of her 
bedroom window, when she heard her father's unmis- 
takable footfall on the round kidney-flints of the village 
side\falk. She slipped on a loose wrapper, and the 
latch had hardly clicked under Mr. Stringer’s hand 
when his daughter’s head peeped over the staircase, and 
the flicker of a tallow candle spread its smeary light 
over a portion of the entrance-hall. 

Mr. Stringer, proud in the possession of his newly 
found proof of the Rector’s guilt, was disposed to be 
more than usually lenient towards minor offenders, his 
daughter included, yet the very fact of Mary’s being 
awake at that hour without his special permission, even 
under circumstances which might naturally produce 
such an occurrence, was an act of open rebellion against 
his parental authority, and, as such, must needs be 
reproved. Mr. Stringer was not a father who was 
likely, under any pretext, to spoil the child by sparing 
the rod. 

“ An’ what’s thee got to be up at this hour for ? ” he 
cried, when his guest and himself had entered. 

Mary began to stammer, “ I couldn’t sleep, father — ' 
when she was interrupted. 

44 You’ve got a light theer. Can’t you see the gentle- 
man is waitin’.” 

Mary, drawing the loose wrapper closely about her, 
came timidly down the stairs, and handed a lighted 
candle to her father. The latter, in his inward smiling 


166 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


contentment about his bitterly fought for and hardly 
won victory against the Rector, was half inclined to 
repent himself of his harsh address to his child. As 
Mary was about to return in awkward shyness towards 
the stairs, her father caught her by the arm — not 
roughly — and turned her round. She, expecting a 
renewed scolding, disposed herself for a good cry, but 
for once Mr. Stringer’s face creamed into a broad smile. 

“Thee art not a bad wench,” he said, “if* you 
wouldn’t hirritate me so. Now, don’t cry. I hate 
women’s tears.” 

Mr. Stringer had intended this speech as a soothing 
balm upon his daughter’s wounded feelings. He 
thought himself extremely kind and loving, but to Mary 
it sounded just a little more harsh by reason of its 
pretended jocularity. 

“ I’m not crying, father,” she replied awkwardly ; 
and, again trying to pull her wrapper closer round her, 
she dropped a folded piece of paper, neither more nor 
less than Mr. Cornelius’s last epistle, which she had 
treasured all the while in her hand. 

No one would have given Mr. Stringer credit for the 
agility which he displayed, for he pounced upon the 
piece of paper like a hawk upon a singing bird, and 
unfolded it, and proceeded to read it, whilst Mary, with 
a white face, stood tremblingly by. 

“Oh, it’s Mr. Badger what writes to thee! ” he hissed. 

“ Yes, father,” she replied tearfully. 

“ Go to bed ! ” he cried, with an alarming quiet in his 
voice. “ I’ll talk to you in the morning, my girl. I’ll 
badger Mr. Badger an’ you, both. If I don’t, my name 
ain’t Isaac Stringer.” 

“ I hope you’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when the girl 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


167 


liad left the room sobbing as if her heart would break ; 
“ but there’s a young jackanapes — a rascal, as is trying 
to play ducks an’ drakes with my girl’s reputation, and 
to-morrow morning I’ll wallop the pair of ’em. I ain’t 
going to have no snakes crawling about my parlor 
a-tempting my daughter to sin an’ shame.” 

White simply nodded with a well-bred uninterested- 
ness. Stringer’s manner and whole proceeding had 
proved peculiarly offensive to the old scholar, and he 
desired simply to fulfil his errand as speedily as possi- 
ble, and to wash his hands of the whole business — of 
Mr. Stringer, his foibles, and his surroundings. 

“ If you will permit me,” the old gentleman said, “ I 
will go to bed. I am very tired, and I wish to get away 
early in the morning.” 

“Might I be hasking too much, sir,” Mr. Stringer 
demanded, “ if I was to beg of you to write out your 
certifiket to-night, that this book’s a forgery ? ” 

“ If you particularly wish it I’ll do so,” Mr. White 
replied fatigugdly. “ It will not be necessary then for 
me to see you in the morning.” 

Mr. Stringer’s head and skin both were too thick to 
be touched by the intended acerbity of the remark. 

“ It would oblige me,” he answered ; and, fetching 
pen, ink, and paper, he laid them and the Bible on the 
table. 

The expert glanced for a few moments at the book, 
and turned over many of its leaves, one after the other. 
Then he wrote as follows : 

“ The copy of the English Bible, edition folio, 1568, 
commonly known as the Bishops’ Bible, submitted to 
me by Mr. Isaac Stringer, of Thorbury, is made up of 
a manipulated copy on vellum of the facsimile published 


168 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


by Hawkins. It is bound in the restored original 
,leather-covered boards.” 

He signed the paper and handed it to Stringer. 

“Won’t you say as it’s a forgery?” the latter ex- 
claimed in disappointment. 

“ I have given a proper and formal description of the 
state of the book, of its origin and contents. It answers 
all possible questions.” 

“But surely it’s either a forgery or it ain’t,” Mr. 
Stringer insisted. “ Can’t you say plain and straight- 
forward if it’s a good book or a bad book ? That’s what 
I’m a-paying my money for, ain’t I ? ” 

“ I have said all I intend to say, and all that need be 
said,” the old man answered with dignity ; “ and now, 
sir, I wish you good-night.” 

Stringer sat and looked after the expert as the latter 
disappeared through the doorway, with mingled feelings 
of indignation and amazement. The old scholar’s 
mariner forbade open signs of resentment, but the fact 
remained, nevertheless, that he, Isaac Stringer, had been 
openly defied and rebuked. Was his triumph to be em- 
bittered, after all, and was he to taste a portion of the 
cup of gall he was preparing for his adversary ? He 
turned the document over and over again, he read it and 
re-read it ; but both its wording and its meaning might 
just as well have been expressed in Chaldean for all the 
light they threw for him upon the subject he desired to 
be cleared up. 

“ He said as it is a forgery,” he argued with himself ; 
“ and I suppose that’s what he means by all this outland- 
ish lingo. What’s he got to be writing in a language 
that a man can’t understand ? Henglish is good enough 
for me. I wish I did know what he says,” he added, 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


169 


holding the document at arm’s length, and looking at it 
thus, as if thereby he would be better able to read it. 
“I know what I’ll do; I’ll go and get the Squire to 
translate it for me.” 

He placed the certificate inside the book, and closed 
the heavy cover with a bang. 

Just for one moment the thought flashed across his 
mind, If the book is a forgery, why did the Rector go 
and fetch it out of the fire ? ” and a half-confused pic- 
ture formed itself before his eyes, just behind the yellow 
flare of the tallow candle, out of a tiny wreathlet of 
smoke emitted by the flame. Mr. Stringer was not an 
imaginative man — in fact, a being more wooden-minded 
and practically prosaic could not well be found — but 
somehow or other that grayish cloudlet grew into a hazy 
veil, which in its turn lifted, and he could see the Rector’s 
face, the Rector’s eyes as they had looked upon him, 
full of outraged dignity, of withering majesty, the 
moment before that appalling venture for the rescue of 
the book. He remembered the feeling of awe and 
amazement which had struck him at the time, only to be 
forgotten in the self-satisfaction of his vindicated pur- 
pose. 

Now, Stringer was neither a bad, nor a really unchar- 
itable, nor a really vindictive man at heart; he was 
simply pig-headed, and, having once caught hold of any- 
thing, he stuck to it with bull-dog tenacity. Had he 
begun by liking the Rector, he would have defended 
him with as much unreasoning obstinacy as he now ex- 
pended in attacking him, and in his heart of hharts he 
felt just a little qualm lest Dr. Hay was not so black as 
he himself desired to paint him. That walk into the 
fire staggered Mr. Stringer, but here again the church- 


170 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


warden’s solatium omnium appeared with all its com- 
fort. 

“What’s the good of harguing?” Mr. Stringer said 
in self-converse. “ I’ve got to do my dewty.” 

That word brought to him the sense of another 
function he had promised to perform in the morning, 
that of “ walloping ” Mr. Badger and Mary. 

He took the Bible, with the document enclosed, and 
locked it up in one of the drawers of the sideboard. 
Then he sat himself down by the round centre-table, 
and, taking his spectacles this time, set to work to read 
Mr. Badger’s effusion. Work it was, for Mr. Badger’s 
handwriting was of that complicated and erratic kind 
which can only be acquired by long absences from 
school. In addition to that, Mr. Cornelius had chosen 
an ink which made an impudent pretence of being 
violet. This he had intended as a sort of underlining 
to his amatory expressions. The ink, however, failed 
ignominiously in looking like anything but a dirty 
gray, and what with the bad light, the faint ink, and 
the barely legible writing, Mr. Stringer’s eyes and temper 
were both tried sorely. 

“Most honored and .adored Miss,” commenced Mr. 
Cornelius, “I should have written before again if I had 
not been afraid that your respected father might find 
it out, and object.” 

“ I’ll 4 respected father ’ him,” growled Mr. Stringer, 
turning up an imaginary shirt-sleeve, and looking round 
an imaginary stable for an imaginary horsewhip ; “ I’ll 
object him, and her too, for that ! So the hussy’s 
had a letter before this one. They’ve been carrying on 
correspondence, they have.” 

With this inspiriting reflection he continued his 
perusal. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 171 

“ Believe me, most lovely of her sex,” said the letter, 
“ that my intentions is most honorable.” 

“ I’m glad to hear that,” grunted Mr. Stringer. 

“ And if you was to allow me to say so to you with 
my own voice, I could do it much better than in writing, 
as my pen is bad. Therefore, if you could meet me at 
the stile by the Barfield Road at any hour to-morrow 
afternoon, where I will be waiting for you, you would 
confer a great favor on yours, who adores you until 
death, Cornelius Badger.” 

“ My young friend, I will be there, if my daughter 
won’t,” Mr. Stringer exclaimed, and pushed the letter 
into his trousers pocket. The epistle and its quaint 
style had nothing ludicrous for him. He never for 
one moment considered that his own bringing-up of 
his daughter ought to have been sufficient warranty 
against her falling into a snare ; but all her previous 
virtuous and modest and maidenly conduct had not 
a feather’s weight with her father. He perceived the 
attack, and took its success as a matter of course. 

He went to bed, rather tired by the impression of 
the events through which he had passed, and but a very 
few minutes after his head had touched his pillow he 
was snoring loudly. 

He woke rather later than usual, and, having dis- 
covered that fact on consulting his watch, he dressed 
himself, in a very bad humor, and went downstairs. 
His morning meal was laid out, as was customary, in 
the breakfast-room ; the teapot and its cosey were 
standing on the table, and he could hear the singing 
of the kettle on the kitchen fire. But there was an 
ominous silence about the place, a peculiar deadness, 
an absence of some- sound or other to which he was 


172 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


accustomed. His temper grew worse, and he was about 
to give vent to it, when on his plate, which stood ready 
for him, he saw a note addressed to himself in the hand- 
writing of his daughter. A cold sensation crept over 
him as he sat down slowly, and with trembling hands 
tore open the envelope. 

“ My dear father,” Mary’s letter said, “ I have done 
no wrong, believe me, and never mean to. You have 
been a very good father, but you are unkind at times, 
and I dare not face you this morning. I am going to 
service to earn my own living. Sam can do the work 
of the house, and you can get old Susan to come and 
help him. Good-by, father dear, and God bless you.” 

There were half a dozen dull round spots on the 
surface of the paper, where Mary’s tears had taken away 
the gloss. Stringer, with a vacant stare, unconsciously 
glanced round the room. It looked so empty. There 
was not a sound on the stairs or in the kitchen but the 
singing of the kettle. He felt so lonely, and, for the 
first time in his life, he knew what the feeling meant. 
Both his children gone, and he alone to pass his old 
days amidst strangers. He could not make it out why 
it was, but he did not see quite so well. He tried to 
look across the garden, and he could not see the 
summer-house which he knew was there, and several 
times he tried to speak to himself, and found that 
something prevented him, and things were altogether 
wrong and uncomfortable and unusual. What had he 
done to deserve it all ? 

On a sudden he shook himself together ; he hitched 
up his trousers, and drew his hand across his eyes. 

“ Let her go ! ” he cried. “ Let her go ! Let her go 
with Joseph. I’ve only been doing my dewty. Let her 
go ! I don’t want to see her face again.” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


173 


CHAPTER XVI. 

When the great Birmingham surgeon called early on 
the following day at the Rectory, he ordered, after a 
prolonged and careful examination, that the patient 
should be kept in as nearly absolute darkness as was 
compatible with his necessities. On descending to the 
dining-room he scribbled a telegram to a famous Lon- 
don oculist, begging the latter to spare the time to meet 
him at Thorbury Rectory on the following day. He 
handed the telegram to the servant for transmission to 
the office. 

Mrs. Hay and Ophelia stood by, trembling. 

44 There is nothing serious the matter with my hus- 
band’s eyesight, is there, doctor?” Mrs. Hay asked in 
an anguished voice. 

44 Don’t distress yourself, my dear Mrs. Hay,” the 
surgeon replied. 44 In cases like this I always prefer a 
specialist’s advice. There are grave reasons for careful 
treatment, and for obtaining the best opinion that can 
be had for love or money, and I will see that Dr. Hay 
has both.” 

The surgeon’s deliberate utterance brought but cold 
comfort to their sorrowing hearts. The doctor’s words, 
his precautions, the surroundings which he prescribed 
for the sufferer, all pointed towards danger, serious 
danger, for the Rector’s eyesight. 

Dr. Hay bore his tortures uncomplainingly. His wife 
sat by his bedside in the darkness, and in the adjoining 


1T4 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


room Ophelia shared her aunt’s sorrow. Neither of the 
ladies had understood, or could understand, the reason 
of Dr. Hay’s act. Neither of them, in their supreme 
confidence in his goodness and calm judgment, had as 
yet asked a question about it. But somehow or other 
the news reached the kitchen, and thence extended to 
the servants’ hall, and from there travelled to the upper 
rooms, that Stringer had accused the Rector of having 
done something that was unlawful, and that Dr. Hay, 
to prove the justice of his case, had walked into the 
fire, and brought out the Holy Book. To Mrs. Hay and 
Ophelia the report seemed neither unreasonable nor 
unlikely, and they accepted it as probably the correct 
version of the case. Both knew that the pig-headed 
warden of Thorbury Church was capable of going to 
extremes in his opposition to the Rector, and of course 
they were equally sure their husband and uncle was 
absolutely guiltless of any charge his obstinate enemy 
might bring against him. 

Mrs. Hay and Ophelia were discussing the report 
which had reached them by way of the servants’ quar- 
ters, when a card was handed to the Rector’s wife, 
bearing the inscription, “ Martin White, M. A.” 

On descending to the drawing-room they found the 
old scholar, who disconsolately asked after Dr. Hay’s 
condition. 

“ I am afraid, my dear ladies,” he said, “ that I have 
to add to your troubles ; but I should not only be 
neglecting my duty, but also be acting in anything but 
a kindly spirit towards Dr. Hay, if I forbore from com- 
municating to you what has come to my knowledge.” 

“Your preamble makes me tremble about what is to 
follow,” said Mrs. Hay anxiously. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


175 


a You must be prepared for something serious,” Mr. 
White continued ; “ but even at the present moment I 
have no doubt that, as far as Dr. Hay is concerned, a 
perfect explanation will be readily forthcoming.” 

Mrs. Hay’s face turned pale. 

“ Go on, sir ; go on, sir,” she whispered. 
u I had occasion,” the old man said, “ some years ago, 
to examine the Bishops’ Bible of your husband’s church. 
1 found it an extremely valuable and unusually beauti- 
ful specimen of the rare book. Some time ago Mr. 
Isaac Stringer ” — a perceptible tremor ran through 
Mrs. Hay’s frame at the mention of the name — 44 wrote 
to the firm in London who employ me, for an expert 
opinion about the condition of that same Bible. You 
are not unwell, madam, I hope ? ” 

44 No, no ; pray continue,” the poor lady answered. 

44 I am afraid my recital is trying to you,” Mr. White 
said 44 but there is no help for it. It is your right to 
know, and my duty to tell you. The Bishops’ Bible 
was again placed in my hands by Mr. Stringer after your 
husband had rescued it from the fire, and I find it to be 
a clever but worthless forgery.” 

Mrs. Hay and Ophelia both rose in terror at the 
words. 

44 Those men ! Those wicked men !” Mrs. Hay ex- 
claimed, wringing her hands. 44 They have stolen the 
old book, and put this in its place, and — ” She turned 
with ghastly open eyes and heaving bosom towards the 
old man, whilst her tears flowed fast. ‘‘Merciful 
Father ! ” she exclaimed. 44 1 see it all now. That ter- 
rible man says my poor Denis has had a hand in it. 
May Heaven forgive him for the abominable thought ! ” 
44 1 cannot conceal from you,” said the old gentleman 


176 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


quietly, u that Mr. Stringer does charge your husband 
with complicity in the affair.” 

44 What an outrage,” exclaimed Ophelia. 44 What a 
wicked, dastardly outrage ! ” 

44 Reflections of this kind may ease your minds for the 
moment,” the old scholar insisted kindly; 44 but they 
will not aid us in mending matters. You mentioned 
somebody just now — some men — and I gather from 
your remarks that they had something to do with the 
book. Believe me, you have my heartiest sympathy in 
this business, and you can command such aid as I can 
give you to the fullest of my power. Who are the men 
you spoke of just now, and what is their connection 
with the matter ? ” 

44 My husband engaged them to restore the book,” 
Mrs. Hay answered. 44 The cover was broken, and the 
leaves were loose and soiled here and there, and a 
gentleman who came from London persuaded poor 
Denis to engage them. One was a Scotchman, the 
other a German.” 

44 Thank you,” Mr. White interrupted. 44 That is 
sufficient for my purpose. I know the pair, and have 
for some time past suspected them. Their names are 
Reinemann and MacWraith. The case is quite clear to 
me now, and I hope to make it clear to all concerned 
before I have done with it. Have no fear now, my 
dear madam,” he said, rising. 44 1 have a great deal of 
experience in the book business, and whilst rendering you 
and your husband a service which is due to you both, 
I hope to rid the community of a pair of rascals who 
have long been preying upon it. I return to London 
by the next train, and the first cab that I can find shall 
take me to Cholmondeley Rents, Chancery Lane. By 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


177 


to-morrow morning at latest you shall know the result 
of my interview with Messieurs Reinemann and Mac- 
Wraith.” 

The pressure of a soft hand and a tearful glance 
thanked the old gentleman. His dignified and self- 
assured manner had carried such conviction with it, 
that Mrs. Hay, with all that additional trouble on her 
heart, felt actually lighter and happier in being aware 
of it. 

Whilst the Rectory was thus sorrowfully disturbed, a 
crowd of gaping villagers surrounded the smouldering 
ruins of their parish church. The old Tudor walls 
stood there still, roofless and windowless, hollow shells 
of the destruction within. The surplices that had 
angered Mr. Stringer so sorely were gone, of course, 
and with them the presses which had contained them. 
Tiny columns of smoke curled from the heap of cinders, 
and the whole of God’s acre and the road beyond the 
gate was strewed and blackened with extinguished 
embers. The village folk stood by, half surlily, half 
awe-stricken. Something had happened which they 
could not understand. There were those among them, 
of course, who were deeply dyed with the prejudices of 
the Stringer faction, and who traced the whole of this 
misfortune to what, in their minds, was th efons et origo 
of it all — the return to Papistry of the Established 
Church’s minister. But by far the larger number 
among the little crowd listened to these perorations 
with about the intelligence and appreciation exhibited 
by a wooden doll that is addressed by a child. The 
whole business was a mix up of Rector, and church- 
warden, and Bible, and church, and fire, and real book, 


178 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


and wrong book, which was sorely perplexing to their 
dull minds. Somebody had changed something, and 
the fire was the result — that was as far as most of 
them got, until by sheer dint of hammering repetition, 
the opposition faction had made themselves understood 
so far as to convey to the most sluggish of them all that 
the Rector was even blacker than he had been painted. 

Little knots of men and women were scattered over 
the churchyard and the road outside, and amongst these 
a town gentleman, no less a person than Mr. Cornelius 
Badger, moved in all the glory of his sham jewelry. 
He had the whole history of the affair at his fingers’ 
ends. Looking upon himself as a possible future son- 
in-law of Mr. Isaac Stringer, he naturally espoused the 
latter’s cause. He was holding forth to one and sundry 
in his most eloquent style, when he found himself 
tapped on the shoulder, and lo and behold ! on turning 
round, there stood before him the burly and awe-inspir- 
ing form of Mr. Stringer himself. 

Mr. Stringer was pale. His small hat was set firmly 
on his big head, his lips were bloodless, his teeth hard 
set, and there was a general air of quiet determination 
about his rotund face which made Mr. Cornelius Badger 
feel altogether uncomfortable. Mr. Badger noticed, 
with only half-assured satisfaction, that the father of 
his lady-love carried no horsewhip or other instrument 
of convenient torture with him. He suspected not for 
a moment that his epistle had been perused by the 
parental eye. He, therefore, took a little courage, and, 
although his heart went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, his limbs 
shook somewhat less, and he felt himself prepared for 
nearly any emergency. 

“ I’m very much obliged to thee, young man,” Mr. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


179 


Stringer commenced, with threatening quiet, “ for 
taking the trouble to speak up for me. I say I’m very 
much obliged to thee, because that about squares that 
matter ; but I’ve got a word or two to say to you on 
the quiet, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll say it to you now. 
Who give }mu permission to write to my Mary ? ” 

The thunderbolt had fallen at Mr. Badger’s feet. 

“ I’m very sorry, sir,” he stammered. 

“ Sorry be hanged ! ” Mr. Stringer rejoined. “ Who 
give you permission ? ” 

A small rat, previous to being eaten by a cat, and 
when being played with by his relentless enemy, could 
not feel more frightened than Mr. Badger under the 
threatening eye of the irate churchwarden. He fairly 
gasped. 

“ I thought, sir,” was his reply, “ as Miss Stringer, sir, 
if you please, sir, and you, sir — ” 

“ Leave me out of the business, young man,” Mr. 
Stringer protested. “ Who give a young scamp like 
you, as come from nowhere, and as has nothing to rec- 
ommend him, permission to write to a respectable girl 
— a respectable girl, I said — with a blameless character, 
and never known to liencourage a hunprincipled young 
man ? ” 

Quite a crowd of listeners had surrounded the pair 
by that time. 

Mr. Stringer was having a row with somebody, and 
that was always attractive sport to the young and old 
population of the village. 

“ Well, sir, I don’t know, sir,” Mr. Badger replied 
faintly. 

“You don’t know ! ” sneered Mr. Stringer. “Of 
course you don’t know. You’re not likely to know. 


180 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


It’s young scoundrels like you as brings desolation into 
Christian homes, and takes unsuspecting girls from their 
-fathers, but you’re not going to get so fur this time, Mr. 
Badger. My Mary’s gone, and I don’t care what 
becomes of her. I’ve done with her — but — ” 

Mr. Badger did not wait to hear more. With a swift 
push of one elbow he sent a yokel who was standing by 
his side sprawling, an elderly woman experienced a simi- 
lar fate, and Mr. Cornelius was speeding as fast as his 
legs could carry him towards the village, pursued by a 
small crowd of boys and men, who had heard in Mr. 
Stringer’s speech sufficient warrant for a personal at- 
tack on the young man from town. 

Mr. Badger was in a small way quite a bruiser. He 
was young, active, and not overburdened with flesh. 
Freed from the overawing presence of his possible 
father-in-law, he hit out right and left, and sent two or 
three of his aggressors flying into the dust of the road. 
The combat was too unequal, however, to be lengthy or 
undecided. Mr. Stringer, on coming up with Mr. 
Badger, beamed with satisfaction. There stood the 
graceless young man, a perfect wreck of destroyed gro- 
tesque finery — his coat torn, his hat, his cravat, and 
shirt nearly dragged from his body, all his clothing 
stained with dust and dirt, his hair dishevelled, and his 
face besmeared with blood. 

“ You’ll write again to a respectable young girl, will 
you?” Mr. Stringer exclaimed; “and the next time 
you’ll know what’ll come to you. Let me give you one 
bit of advice, young man. You get out of this village 
as quick as your legs can carry you, or you’ll see what 
can happen to you.” 

Sufficient had already happened to Mr. Badger to im- 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


181 


press him with a sense of the advisability of leaving the 
neighborhood. He scowled furiously out of his battered 
eyes upon the burly originator of his troubles, but dared 
utter no threat, nor even hint at intended revenge. The 
villagers were still there ready to spring at him like 
hounds loosened from the leash. The name of Mary 
Stringer was a household word amongst them, as the 
impersonation of all that was good and homely and lov- 
able in a young girl. They had all known her from 
childhood, and they gleaned from Stringer’s words that 
this young man had at least intended to bring her to de- 
struction. Their fingers itched to fly at his throat again, 
and it was with difficulty that some of them could per- 
suade themselves to allow Mr. Badger to slink away like 
a whipped cur. 

Now, had this retribution not overtaken Mr. Badger, 
it is more than likely he would have remained in the 
village some considerable time longer, awaiting a reply 
to his letter to Mary. As it was, he changed his cloth- 
ing, restored his disordered appearance as much as possi- 
ble to its wonted gloss, and shook the dust of the village 
of Thorbury from his feet. The very next train took 
him on his road to London. At Birmingham a young 
lady who had been waiting on the platform, having ar- 
rived by a previous local train, took a seat in the com- 
partment next to that occupied by Mr. Badger. 

The young Lothario had been severely bruised in his 
contest with the villagers. His hurts, although not very 
apparent, caused him considerable pain. He gazed list- 
lessly out into the great tumult of the busy station, and 
the young lady who stepped into the next compartment 
would have passed on her way unnoticed had she not 
asked the guard a commonplace question. 


182 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


The sound of her voice rang through Mr. Badger. It 
electrified him and left him speechless for the moment. 
The young lady was Mary Stringer. 

The whistle sounded and the train moved away — and 
Mr. Badger was relieved and gladdened by the thought 
that she for whom he had suffered so much was so near 
to him. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


183 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The train which stopped at Birmingham on its road 
to London, carrying the fortunes of Mr. Cornelius 
Badger and Miss Mary Stringer, had a third passenger 
of no little importance to our story — namely, Mr. 
Martin White. The old scholar had sent a telegraphic 
despatch to London, and had just returned tb the plat- 
form, when he heard his name called by a gentleman 
standing at the door of one of the carriages of the local 
train proceeding northward. 

“ Oh, Saint Sauveur,” he said, “ it is you. Let me 
see. Surely you live at Thorbury ? ” 

“Yes,” replied the organist, “I am going back. I 
have been away for a few days, and would have been 
absent for another week, but there has been a fire in 
the church, and my friend Dr. Hay is injured.” 

“I have just come from there,” White rejoined, “and 
I am running back to London on Dr. Hay’s business.” 

“You have seen him ? ” Saint Sauveur asked. “ There 
is nothing very serious, I hope ? ” 

“ I am not referring to the Doctor’s bodily condition 
— that is bad enough, I’m afraid — but he is in very 
good hands. Another matter of great importance has 
occurred. Of course you know all about the old 
Bishops’ Bible?” 

“Yes,” Saint Sauveur answered eagerly. “Dr. Hay 
had it restored only lately. Your manner alarms me, 
White ! There’s nothing wrong, I trust.” 


184 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


“ My dear boy,” said the expert, “ the book that was 
last night put in my hands is not the restored original. 
It is, to use a trade term, a faked fac-simile. A das- 
tardly fraud has been committed, and there is a pig- 
headed fool in the village who insists upon dragging 
the name of our friend Dr. Hay into the charge.” 

“ Mr. Stringer, I suppose?” Saint Sauveur exclaimed. 

“The same,” White replied. “He says he is sure 
Dr. Hay sold the old book, and had the imitation put 
in its place.” 

“ But the man is mad ! He must be mad ! ” cried 
the Frenchman. “He is more than mad: he is wicked. 
I never thought he would carry his spite so far. What 
can be done? Those men must have changed the book. 
I suppose they can be found.” 

“ I am just going to London for the very purpose 
of fathoming this matter, and one of the first calls 
I shall make will be upon Messieurs Reinemann and 
Mac Wraith.” 

The bell for the departure of the down express sounded 
at that moment. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Saint Sauveur said 
excitedly. “ I can be of no substantial service in Thor- 
bury, and I might aid you considerably in London. I’ll 
run back to town with you.” 

After a few words of explanation to the guard, Saint 
Sauveur’s small luggage was transferred to the first- 
class compartment which White alone had previously 
occupied. 

As the train was speeding Londonwards, the old 
expert opened his satchel, and produced from it quite 
a little pile of catalogues, lists of books, pamphlets, and 
other small publications issued by the book trade. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


185 


From these he selected a leaflet of four pages, which 
he handed to Saint Sauveur. 

It was headed “William Hawkins’ list of Photo- 
lithographic Fac-similes of Rare English Bibles, Psalters, 
etc.” 

“ There you will find,” Mr. White said, pointing to 
a place on the second page, “ the publication which the 
blackguards used to make up the book at Thorbury. 
You see that six copies on vellum are advertised for 
sale, and at the office in Great Queen Street they will 
be able to tell us to whom each copy was sold, and we 
will thus be able to trace the fraud home-” 

“ Of course we will,” Saint Sauveur cried gleefully. 
“ I suppose the rascals never dreamed that an expert 
would examine their book. Not many connoisseurs of 
bibliographic treasures come to the little village.” 

The journey to London proved an anxious period to 
Saint Sauveur, and he barely gave his companion time 
to call at his lodgings to leave his bag, before they were 
speeding as fast as a hansom could carry them towards 
Great Queen Street. 

Over the broad doorway of a time-stained, sombre- 
looking building in that dingy thoroughfare, the word 
“ Hawkins ” shone in gilt letters from a black board. 

If Mr. White and Saint Sauveur had not been so 
deeply occupied by the momentary excitement of the 
business in hand, they might have seen, as they passed 
through the gateway into the courtyard where the 
office was situated, a gentleman in shining black broad- 
cloth, with sandy hair, and close-cropped beard and 
whisker, who was standing in a dark corner next to 
a staircase, having darted there the moment he saw 
White and Saint Sauveur alight. 


186 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“ Ma gracious,” the black-broadclothed gentleman 
exclaimed when the two had passed him. “ Ah’m a 
wee bet just in time. Saint Sauveur and White ! 
They’ve found out it’s a fake, and White will want to 
know who bought the fac-semele. They’ll just have a 
little trouble to find that out. Ah’d better go and tell 
Reinemann.” 

With that he slunk away, and was soon lost amid 
the busy crowd of passers who thronged the street. 

The expert was well known in the office, and was 
immediately ushered into the manager’s private room. 
The latter, a smooth-faced, elderly gentleman, soft and 
quiet in manner and speech, in compliance with White’s 
request, sent for the register of sales. A big ponderous 
volume was brought. 

“We have sold four copies on vellum,” the smooth- 
faced gentleman said, on turning down one of the 
leaves. “ One to the Liverpool Library, one to Mr. 
Quaritch, one to Mr. Anderton of New York, and one 
to the Rev. Dr. Denis Hay.” 

At the mention of that name Saint Sauveur and 
White stood aghast,' and neither of them seemed pos- 
sessed of speech. 

“ Dr. Hay ! Dr. Hay ! ” Saint Sauveur burst out at 
last. “ Why, it’s impossible ! ” 

He looked from White to the manager, and from the 
manager to White, as if he were possessed by some hor- 
rid dream. He held on to a chair for a moment, and, 
gasping, sank into the seat. 

“ There is something very wrong about this trans- 
action,” White said very quietly, “and I want you to 
give me all your attention. I am as certain as a man 
can be who has no absolute proof, that Dr. Hay did not 
buy this book.” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


18T 


“ My dear sir,” the manager exclaimed, “ what inter- 
est have we in entering Dr. Hay’s name if it was not 
given to us as the purchaser? ” 

44 May I look at the entry ? ” White asked pointedly, 
whilst Saint Sauveur, with a face pale and anxious, fol- 
lowed his movement as if barely awake. 

The manager, for reply, swung round the big volume, 
so that the columns "faced Mr. White. 

44 In whose handwriting is that entry?” the expert 
demanded. 

The manager, looking at the writing through his eye- 
glasses, replied : 

44 It is the writing of one of our principal clerks.” 
He stepped to the door of the glass partition which 
divided his room from the outer office. 44 Please come 
in here, Mr. Mackenzie,” he called to a young man in 
the outer office. 44 1 want you to explain something. 
Look at that entry — the last one — of the 1568 Bibles 
on vellum,” he said, when the young man had entered. 
44 That is your writing, is it not ? ” 

44 Yes, sir,” the clerk replied. 

44 Was the book ordered by letter, or how?” the 
manager inquired. 

The young man examined the entry, and replied 
sharply : 

“No. It was sold across the counter. You see the 
little C before the entry, which means 4 cash.’ ” 

Both Saint Sauveur and White had been listening 
attentively. 

44 Can you describe the person who bought the book ? ” 
Saint Sauveur asked in a troubled voice. 

44 1 have no particular memory of the transaction,” 
the clerk answered. 


188 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


44 Do yon remember at all how you came to enter it 
to Dr. Hay ? ” the manager inquired. 

“ I will ask Charles,” the clerk replied. “ He took 
the money, and may have a better recollection of the 
business than I.” 

The clerk stepped into the outer office, and the 
seconds appeared years to Saint Sauveur before he 
returned. 

“ Charles remembers the circumstance perfectly,” 
the young man said when he re-entered the room, 
44 although he does not remember the actual person. It 
was an ordinary messenger, and on Charles asking him 
to whom the invoice was to be made out, he gave the* 
Rev. Dr. Hay’s name and address.” 

44 That is all you can tell us about the matter ? ” Saint 
Sauveur asked disconsolately. 

44 1 don’t know what else I can tell you, sir,” the 
clerk answered, and left the room. 

44 We have found but poor consolation here,” Saint 
Sauveur said when they were in the street again. 44 This 
but makes the matter worse.” 

44 That is MacWraith’s trick, I’ll bet,” said White. 
44 Reinemann is neither cunning enough nor clever 
enough for such a dodge. We must treat the serpents 
after their own fashion. Of course, it was absurdly im- 
possible for them to substitute a forgery for the real 
book without possessing themselves of a ready-made 
imitation, and, unfortunately, in Hawkins’ list they 
found one of these. We must pretend to be totally 
unaware of this purchase of theirs, and the use they 
made of Dr. Hay’s name.” 

Cholmondeley Rents is a narrow passage leading from 
Lincoln’s Inn to Chancery Lane. It is composed of 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


189 


about twenty tumble-down, ill-looking buildings, often 
with dingy, unclean, paper-mended windows, and prin- 
cipally occupied by law-stationers, law-writers, litho- 
graphers, brokers, and other dependents of the law 
courts, with the inevitable disreputable-looking coffee- 
house and the equally inevitable worse-looking beer-shop 
at either end. 

The ground-floor of one of these houses was occupied 
by an office, on the white stippled window of which ap- 
peared, in large black letters, the name “ L. Reinemann,” 
and, much smaller, underneath, the word “ Mac Wraith.” 
The entrance to the office was by a door at the side, the 
big iron knocker of which had to give its summons 
thrice before an answer was made to the call. 

A diminutive boy, whose face looked like one big 
smudge, inquired in a shrill treble, “ What did the gen- 
nelmen want?” On being told that the gentlemen 
wished to see either Mr. Reinemann or Mr. Mac Wraith, 
the diminutive boy slammed the door, and shouted, 
“ Wait a minute,” through the keyhole. 

Saint Sauveur and White waited several minutes 
before the door opened again, and the small smudge- 
faced boy, pointing to the office with a “ Will the gen- 
nelmen step in there, please ? ” grinned as if something 
very peculiar had tickled his risible faculties, and, div- 
ing into the gloom of the landing, disappeared like a 
shot, whilst his boots could be heard going clatter, 
clatter upstairs. 

The organist and expert, on entering the office, found 
themselves in a large room with perfectly bare walls, the 
entire furniture of which consisted of an immense plain 
deal table and three heavy stools. A couple of big ink- 
stands stood upon the black-bespattered table, and some 


190 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


sheets of red blotting-paper lay strewn about it here and 
there. In one corner stood a huge basket filled with 
paper cuttings, parchment cuttings, and loose leaves of 
all kinds, and there was a general air of untidiness about 
the place which it would have seemed difficult to obtain 
with so small an amount of articles. 

They might have waited in that office a full five min- 
utes when the descending clatter of the small boy’s big 
boots again became audible. A door opened in the back 
regions of the office, and a dirty little face peeped in, 
hailing them with : 

“ This way please, gennelmen.” 

They obeyed the behest and followed their guide up- 
stairs. Mr. Mac Wraith was waiting for them on the 
landing, with a vitriolic smile on his vitriol-creaming 
face. 

“ Ah’m very sorry,” he said, “ to have kept ye wait- 
ing, but ma partner and I have had to finish a job — a 
most emportant job — and we have just got it off in time 
and no more. Glad to see ye, Mr. Saint Sauveur,” he 
added, with a sardonic grin. “ I hope Dr. Hay is well. 
Anything we can do for ye ? ” 

The senior partner was sitting in a wooden Bristol 
armchair, pulling at his black mustache, and elevating 
his black eyebrows as if he desired to get his features 
into a convenient shape. 

“We have come to ask a few questions, which I trust 
you will answer explicitly,” said the expert. “My 
name is White — Martin White. I suppose you have 
heard my name ? ” 

“Ah have that honor,” Mr. MacWraith replied. 
“ Proud and happy to see ye in this humble place. 
We’re both proud and happy — aren’t we, Reinemann ? ” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


191 


“ Wery broud,” the adipose German ejaculated curtly, 
still twisting and twirling his mustache. 

“I want you to tell me,” the old scholar said, fixing 
his cold steady look upon the Scotchman, who withered 
under it, “ what has become of the 1568 folio vellum 
Bible which Dr. Hay entrusted to your care.” 

“What has become of it?” MacWraith exclaimed. 
“ It’s at Thorbury, of course.” 

“ Don’t play with me,” the expert continued quietly. 
“ You will be wise in your generation if you make a 
clean breast of this affair. The book at Thorbury is a 
Hawkins’ fac-simile.” 

“ Quite so, quite so,” MacWraith answered in the 
most commonplace tone in the world. “To what are 
ye alluding? ” 

Reinemann continued to twist and twirl his mustache, 
but much more rapidly and nervously than before. 

“ What do you mean by 4 quite so ’? ” White asked, 
with the barest trace of irritation audible in his voice. 

“Ah mean what ye said just now,” MacWraith re- 
plied grimly and dryly. “ Ah mean that it is a Hawkins’ 
fac-semele.” 

“ Great heavens alive, man ! ” White exclaimed in 
amazement. “ Do you mean to say that you confess it ? ” 

“Confess it?” MacWraith cried, with well-assumed 
astonishment. “ Confess what ? ” 

He turned to Reinemann, rolling his brownish eyes 
all over the room as if in search of an imaginary fault. 

“What have we to confess, Reinemann? ” he asked. 

The German shrugged his big shoulders. He shook 
his upstanding mop of black hair, and uttered a discon- 
solate : 

“ Yes ; what hafe ve to confess ? ” 


192 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


White was a scholar and a book-worm, whose habits 
of life were of that quiet and even kind which pecul- 
iarly unfitted him for a struggle with the oily and snaky 
Mr. Mac Wraith. The old gentleman’s temper was 
getting the better, or rather the worse, of him, although 
for the moment he took pains not to show it. He knew 
that he was dealing with a scoundrel, but as yet had no 
idea of the consummate rascality which he would have 
to encounter. 

“I wish you, sir, to be explicit,” he said sternly. 
“You told us just now that you knew that the book at 
Thorbury is a Hawkins’ fac-simile.” 

“ Quite so, quite so,” the Scotchman again replied. 

White heaved a long breath, as if for the moment 
undecided how to proceed. 

“And will you tell me, sirs,” the expert proceeded, 
looking from Mac Wraith to Reinemann and from Reine- 
mann to Mac Wraith, “what you have done with the 
original vellum copy ? ” 

“ The oreginal ? It’s the oreginal }^e’re asking aboot? ” 
answered Mr. Mac Wraith, with a diabolic smile which 
nearly degenerated into a grin. “ Ah don’t know what 
Dr. Hay’s done with it. Did he tell ye, Reinemann ? ” 

The German, with his elbows on the table in front of 
him, still pulling away at his mustache, simply 
grunted, — 

“No.” 

“Will you permit me to ask a question?” Saint Sau- 
veur now chimed in. “Do I understand you to say 
you acknowledge the book now at Thorbury to be a 
fac-simile?” 

Mr. Mac Wraith made a very fair pretence of being 
upon the point of losing patience. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


193 


“Ye’re takin’ up a lot of our time, gentlemen,” he 
exclaimed, “in askin’ questions Ali’ve answered over 
and over again. Ali’ve told ye that the book is a 
fac-semele. Dr. Hay asked us to make one to put it 
into the church, and what he’s done with the oreginal 
Ah don’t know, nor was it my business to ask. Now, 
if there’s nothing else ye want me to tell ye, with your 
permession, Ah’ll say good-afternoon.” 

Saint Sauveur rose with an honest fury surging to 
his throat. He would have dearly liked to grip the 
scoundrel, and to drag the living truth from him. He 
felt sure of the villainy which had been perpetrated. 
But how was he to prove it? How was he to contradict 
the barefaced wretches ? 

“Let us go, Mr. White,” he said, suppressing his 
emotion ; then, turning to the two partners, he added, — 
“I am not experienced enough in trickery such as 
yours to be likely to be successful in obtaining from 
you a truthful statement, but this I will say, and will 
stand by my words, that you have committed a deliber- 
ate fraud, and that you are attempting to shift the onus 
from your own shoulders by abominable lies.” 

The German had risen in a make-believe of a tower- 
ing rage. 

“Sar,” he shouted, “if you say dat again — ” 

“Quiet. Easy does it,” his partner stopped him. 
Then, with a grotesque attempt at dignity, he turned 
to White and Saint Sauveur. “ There’s a law in the 
land, and Ah’ll mek ye prove your words.” 

“ You may rest assured that I will,” Saint Sauveur 
replied sternly. “There is a law in the land, and a 
police as well, and you shall have your fill of both.” 

“ Dat vas a masderly idea of yours ! ” Reinemann 


194 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


exclaimed when Saint Sauveur and White were gone. 
“ Quide a Naboleonic business. But Naboleon had his 
Vaterloo, and I don’t vant my Newgate. So if you 
vant to write to me do-morrow, my address is 14 Bur- 
schen Strasse, Leipzig, and I can find a room for you 
dere as yell.” 

“It’s off for the Fatherland, then?” the Scotchman 
asked. 

“ Yes,” Reinemann replied. “Dey might come again 
do-morrow, and bring odder beoble mit dem, and dey 
might be bolice. Danke schon ! ” 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


195 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mr. Stringer followed tlie discomfited Don Juan 
of the oiled locks and the cheap jewelry — now, alas ! 
so shorn of his gloss — and saw him enter his lodging 
over the little cobbler’s stall, a few doors from the 
village inn. A very brief interview with the cobbler 
proved to him that Mr. Badger was packing up his 
traps, and the churchwarden sauntered back to his 
house with, for him, an unusually listless step. The 
elasticity was gone from his movements ; his small hat 
gyrated but mournfully upon his big head — it was 
more restless than before, and either Mr. Stringer’s 
efforts were less energetic than usual, or he had 
momentarily lost the knack of the thing, for the offend- 
ing head-gear bounced away into freedom ; and Mr. 
Stringer had to run after it, catch it, and replace it in a 
spirit far removed from graciousness. Mr. Stringer 
was sullen and silent with himself. Having nobody 
with whom he might be displeased ready to his hand, 
he made a scapegoat for himself of his own individuality. 
He could not have been in a worse temper with, or more 
offensively inclined towards, Mary than he felt towards 
himself at that moment ; and yet he looked upon him- 
self as the most injured of mortals all the while. 

He took the Bible and the certificate from the drawer 
in the sideboard, in which he had locked it the previous 
night. His movements were quite mechanical, slow and 
measured, like some clockwork set in motion by inad- 
vertent touch. 


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The daylight showed to him the stains of soil and 
smoke on the cover of the book, and without knowing 
exactly what he did, he took out his pocket-handkerchief, 
and commenced to rub the old leather-covered oak 
boards with it, muttering, “ Mary ! Mary ! Mary ! ” a 
full dozen times. He had made up his mind to be the 
Roman father. He had played the part well enough 
when Joseph left him, and he had started pretty fairly 
in the impersonation when the first news of Mary’s 
flight came to him in that note ; but somehow or other 
it did not seem quite so easy when Mary was concerned 
as when Joseph was the culprit. A dozen little things 
about the room, standing in a dozen places — things 
which she had handled, things which she had touched, 
which had belonged to her, which she had given him, all 
spelled her name. Look where he might, turn where he 
would, Mary was ever present. Her soft face looked 
at him pleadingly. The place was full of her, and yet 
so lonely because she was not there. He seemed to 
hear her voice, and yet the room was silent, dreary, and 
unhomelike. This was his home now. These walls, 
and the ceilings, and the floors and the furniture. 

He bit his lip, and sat himself down in the big chintz- 
covered armchair, stretching his legs as far as they 
would reach, and staring out in front of him. He had 
only done his duty, that he knew. His intentions had 
been of the best. He might have been a little rough 
with her sometimes, perhaps just , a trifle too rough'; 
but then he only meant it for her good. He never 
meant her any harm, and she ought to have known that, 
and she ought not to have run away. Really she ought 
not to have left him. 

But he was not going to stir a finger to call her 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


19T 


back. If she was so undutiful, so ungrateful, so un- 
childlike as not to care what became of him, nor how 
miserable he was at that moment, she might go her way. 
In the service of others she would soon find out the dif- 
ference between a home such as his and a place to live in. 
But she would come back. Yes, he felt sure she would 
come back. Not by his calling, though. He would 
never stoop to that. He would never beg one of his 
children — of his undutiful children, of his disobedient 
children — to return to him. But she would come 
back, nevertheless — that he knew — and would make 
the place homelike and homely again. 

F rom where he sat his eye rested on a square piece of 
cream-colored canvas, which Mary’s nimble fingers had 
begun to transform into an embroidered cover for a 
sofa-cushion. The variegated green and brown leaves, 
and the poppy-red roses, stared at him from a brown 
ground. They fidgeted him, and worried him, and he 
arose slowly and solemnly to remove the thing. As he 
held it between his fingers it seemed that by touching 
the object which she had touched he was nearer her. 
His limbs began to tremble, and he felt much less stout 
at heart than he had ever done before. His throat be- 
came thirsty and dry, and his eyes dim and weak, and 
he dashed the embroidered canvas on the ground with a 
half-stifled cry. He stood looking at it as it lay at his 
feet for a full minute, silent and unthinking, with vacant 
mind and gaze. Then he stooped and picked it up. 
He carried it to the sideboard drawer, whence he had 
just taken the Holy Book, and casting a final glance 
upon it, closed the drawer. 

He wrapped the Bible in an old newspaper, and tied 
a dilapidated and joined piece of string around it. Had 


198 


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he been an imaginative man, he might have seen the 
very picture of his mind in that piece of string. The 
autumn sky, which had previously been dull and gray, 
had become leaden, and a fine drizzle was abroad in the 
air. Nature had assumed an aspect as uncomfortable as 
his own hearth, and seemed to be in league with all the 
rest of the world to make him miserable. But he was 
not to be thus beaten by the weather, or an undutiful 
daughter either. The great, old, dark-brown alpaca 
umbrella, with the huge whalebone ribs, was there 
ready for duty ; and the disconsolate churchwarden set 
out towards Thorbury Chase with the feeling of a man 
who is called upon to pose as a hero to the world, but 
who does not feel a bit heroic. 

The fine, imperceptible drizzle had settled itself into 
what a Scotchman would call a “ wee bet o’ mist.” 
Everybody knows the story of that English sportsman 
who was kept within doors by the most persistent of 
downpours, and who, on asking his keeper if he thought 
the weather would change, received the reply that most 
likely it would turn to rain. Mr. Stringer had not 
been on the road ten minutes before that Scotch mist 
did turn to rain, and he soon became, the big umbrella 
notwithstanding, a miserable soaked object in a miser- 
able soaked landscape. He had made up his mind, 
however, to see the Squire, and he was as doggedly 
determined in that as in everything else. 

When he reached Thorbury Chase his trousers looked 
as though they had been in a bath. The drippings of 
his umbrella had descended down his broad back in 
rivers, and had traced their course down to his drenched 
coat-tails. The sneaking element had insinuated itself 
beneath his cuffs ; it had sprinkled itself in a perfect 


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199 


hoar-frost over his gymnastic hat and his face, and his 
collar was limp and moist with it. The newspaper in 
which he had wrapped the Bible had become a mere 
disreputable wet rag, and the black corners of the 
leather-covered boards stood out sharp beyond the 
grayish paper. He felt as woe-begone when he entered 
the library of Thorbury Chase, having left his dripping 
umbrella and head-gear in charge of a servant, as if he 
were a mendicant, and dreaded to be sent away hungry 
and empty-handed. 

“ You made a fine idiot of yourself last night, 
Stringer,” Mr. Boyer said when he entered the room. 
“ I shouldn’t have thought it of you. Every man has 
a right to his own opinions ; but no man has a right 
to use them to his neighbor’s spiteful damage on a 
mere assumption.” 

Of all men Stringer felt himself the most injured. 
But the proofs of the justice of his case were there 
beneath his hand, and he waited silently and stolidly, 
chewing an imaginary cud, and looking as unhappy as 
any man could. 

“You see what it has brought about,” the Squire 
continued — “ your confounded meddling with things 
you don’t understand. I’ve no patience with you. 
You take an idea into that thick head of yours, and 
nobody can knock it out of you. I told you you were 
a fool about that book, and now that poor Dr. Hay has 
been half killed I suppose you’re sorry for it — drat 
it, man ! say you’re sorry for it, even if you don’t mean 
it.” 

“ I’m not sorry, Squire,” Stringer replied in a woe- 
begone voice. 

‘“Not sorry,” the fox-colored Squire roared; “not 


200 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


sorry! Why, what further mischief do you want to 
do? Be a man, and when you’ve committed a fault 
confess it like a man.” 

“ I’ve done nothing as I need be ashamed on,” 
Stringer replied, sluggishly rubbing the moisture from 
his garments ; “ and I’ve done no harm to nobody as 
they didn’t deserve, and as it wasn’t my dewty to do.” 

“ By heavens ! ” the Squire exclaimed, getting red 
in the face, “ you would make a saint swear. Your 
duty! rubbish! Mischievous meddling. I’m no friend 
of Dr. Hay’s. You know that. But I make bold to 
say that what you did last night was a shame to any 
decent man in any decent parish.” 

Stringer took out a small pocket-knife, and cut the 
twine by which the Bible was tied up. He crumpled 
the string and the wet paper into a ball, which he 
threw into the fireplace. 

“ Look theer ! ” he said, pointing to the book. 

“Oh, you’ve got it?” Boyer asked. “ What of it? 
what about it? ” 

“ Look theer ? ” Stringer again said, as quietly as 
before. 

He opened the book, and held out the expert’s 
certificate. 

Boyer took it, and glanced over it. 

“That’s a bad job,” he said, “a very bad job. But 
what does it prove ? ” 

“It proves that the book’s a forgery, don’t it?” 
Stringer inquired. 

“ Well, and what then ? ” Boyer asked. “ What has 
that got to do with your charge against Dr. Hay ? ” 

“ Th’ other book was worth some hunderds of 
pounds,” Stringer rejoined, “and this one ain’t worth 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


201 


a fiver. And who’s had the difference o’ the money if 
the Rector hasn’t ? — that’s what I want to know.” 

“ My good Stringer,” the Squire replied, “ your 
charge against the Rector would be a terrible one if 
it were not so preposterous. You dislike the man, and 
you see something wrong in everything he does. But 
your present idea is simply silly. If the man had 
known that this book was not the genuine old Bible, 
he wou^d never have risked his life in saving it. Now, 
try and hammer that into your head.” 

For the first time Stringer saw the Rector’s action by 
a new light. The Squire was likely to be right in 
what he said, and he, Stringer, perhaps had been a little 
hasty. But then, on the other hand, that was only a 
surmise, and he had no actual proof of it. Therefore, 
why should he say off-hand that he believed it to be 
true ? Not he. Why should he believe it to be true at 
all without final and conclusive proof? It was not a 
case in which a man ought to have the benefit of a 
doubt. All the Rector’s actions had been suspicious, 
and more or less illegal, and in defiance of the estab- 
lished practices of the Church ; therefore, why should 
he trust him on a mere surmise ? 

“You’re too good-natured, Squire,” he said, “and too 
easy. I’m quite willin’ to be guided by you, but a 
man’s got a right to his own opinion all the same, and 
until it’s shown how this here rubbishy book was put 
in the place of th’ ode Bible, what’s been in the church 
all these years, and until it’s proved that man alive 
could do it without the Rector knowin’ of it, and being 
a party to it, by your leave, Squire, I’ll say that my 
opinion’s worth yourn, and that I’ve got as much right 
£o mine as you’ve to yours,” 


202 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


“You were always pig-headed,” Boyer exclaimed; 
“ and there’s no hope of moving you when you’ve once 
got a thing in your noddle.” 

“There’s a pair on us, then,” Stringer answered. 
“All I come for is to leave this book with you to take 
charge on. You’re a magistrate as well as Squire of 
the parish.” 

“As you like, Stringer,” said Boyer casually. “It 
can make no difference to anybody. But you’re not 
going back in this beastly weather, are you? You’re 
wet through. I’ll send for a drop of port.” 

He rang the bell, and the servant brought the 
wine. 

“Do you know, Squire,” said Stringer sorrowfully, 
as he sipped at his glass, “ my Mary’s run away this 
morning.” 

“Your Mary!” exclaimed the other. “Why, then 
both your children are gone.” 

“Yes,” said Stringer. “They’re both gone.” 

He put down the glass he held in his hand. 

Boyer looked at him strangely. 

“ Your house is very lonely, I suppose ? ” he said in a 
low voice. 

Stringer nodded his head in silence. 

“ Those children do make one’s home bright, 
when they’re about,” the Squire continued. “Don’t 
they?” 

Stringer again nodded his head, but said nothing. 

“Both yours are gone, then,” Boyer said. His speech 
was as soft as a woman’s. One would scarcely have 
credited him with so much tenderness. “ I often feel 
sorry my boy’s gone,” he continued, “ and I miss him 
so. I suppose it’s the same with you ? ” 


THE BISHOPS BIBLE . 


203 


The two obstinate fathers looked at one another for 
a few moments in silence. 

Then the Squire held out his hand, and Stringer 
grasped it, and shook it heartily, but neither of them 
spoke a word. 


204 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The only person who profited, or thought he profited, 
by the chapter of accidents — each particular incident 
so weighty in itself — which had proved so momentous 
to the usually peaceful village of Thorbury, was, with- 
out doubt, the individual least worthy of Fortune’s 
favors. Mr. Cornelius Badger was highly elated by 
the circumstance which had located him in such close 
vicinity to Miss Mary Stringer. The rumbling and 
rolling of the train, the continuous swish and whirr of 
the wheels, the noise of the wind as the train dashed 
through it, all became blended into glad music for his 
lovelorn soul. The rainy landscape through which 
they rushed, the gray, leaden sky, the dripping trees, 
and the uncomfortably soaked village gardens became 
bright and cheerful to him as he warmed himself by the 
sunshine of Miss Mary’s near presence. 

When the express stopped at Rugby, he jumped from 
his carriage, and paraded the platform in front of Mary’s 
window, in the hope that he might attract her attention, 
and that she might see him and speak to him. It was 
love’s labor lost, for Miss Stringer gave no sign of 
existence. A buxom Staffordshire widow and her two 
noisy children filled with their obnoxious presence the 
windows of the compartment, and it was impossible for 
Mr. Badger to obtain a glimpse of the Thorbury church- 
warden’s daughter, crane his neck as ever he might. 
A gruff and surly porter ordered him into his carriage 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


205 


in the tone of command and contempt often shown 
towards meaner travellers by provincial railway officials. 
Mr. Cornelius obeyed hesitatingly, and grumblingly, 
and a moment afterwards was again whisked along the 
iron road to London. 

The compartment in which he sat was nearly full. A 
woman suckling a baby was Mr. Badger’s immediate 
neighbor, and opposite him sat two militiamen, not too 
sober, nor too peacefully inclined. They had attempted 
in the short journey between Birmingham and Rugby to 
pick a quarrel with a quiet, stolid-looking, burly farmer, 
who sat at the farther end of the carriage, and, in the 
course of a short argument, had threatened to punch the 
latter’s head. When', however, the farmer rose, and did 
not finish rising until he stood as high as the carriage 
itself, and when they noticed the splendid breadth of his 
chest and shoulders, their pugnacious valor vanished as 
if by magic, and they contented themselves with mak- 
ing the place a pandemonium of oaths and vulgar lan- 
guage. Annoyed by the fact that they could not wreak 
vengeance on the stalwart yeoman, they looked about 
for a more likely victim of their prowess, and one was 
ready to their hands in the Thorbury Lovelace. A pre- 
text was easily found when Mr. Badger, on re-entering 
the compartment, unwittingly stepped upon one of the 
militiamen’s toes. The profusest apologies, the most 
humiliating acknowledgments of his carelessness, availed 
not to save the already battered young man from further 
castigation. A cowardly attack was made upon him while 
he was in the act of placing his hat in the rack. The 
woman, seeing poor Cornelius thus viciously assailed by 
two men, both of them his superiors in weight and 
strength, put her head out of the window and shouted 
and screamed at the top of her voice/ 


206 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


The sudden grating sound of the brakes, as the train 
came to an abrupt standstill, brought the two ruffians to 
a sense of their conduct, and they sat down, scowling at 
poor Cornelius, whose face was streaming with blood. 

The guard appeared at the door a moment afterwards, 
and amidst a perfect Babel of voices, in which the woman 
and the baby joined vigorously, the position of affairs 
was explained. Placed between the alternative of hav- 
ing to expel the two militiamen manu militari , and that 
of finding a place of safety and peace for Mr. Badger, 
the guard invited the latter to take his seat in another 
compartment. Here, again, Fortune favored the appar- 
ently luckless one. Twice that day had he suffered, 
twice had he been assaulted, beaten, and outraged ; but 
each instance of pain and discomfort had brought him 
nearer to his goal. 

The guard opened the very next compartment, and 
Mr. Badger, with his swollen and wounded face half 
concealed by a handkerchief, found himself seated next 
to Mary, before either he or she was aware of one an- 
other’s presence or identity. The whole stoppage had 
barely occupied a minute, and had passed unnoticed by 
those passengers who were not immediate witnesses of 
its cause. 

Now the Don Juan of the imitation jewelry had cer- 
tainly lost his gloss in Miss Mary’s fancy. She could 
not help remembering the stern fact that he was the 
prime cause. of her leaving home and father. Yet the 
girl’s mind was still saturated with the thought that he 
was quite as innocent as she. She had been brought up 
in the strictest principles of Puritan simplicity by an 
uncompromising parent, and had long been left without 
a mother who might have warned her against the wiles 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


207 


and ways of a wicked world. Suspicion of deceit and 
untruth was therefore as much a stranger to Mary’s mind 
as the actual vices were to her own character. Mr. 
Badger had paid attentions to her. Other girls of Thor- 
bury, virtuous girls, had received similar courtesies with 
the full consent of their parents. A still, small voice 
in Mary’s bosom told her that that was just the differ- 
ence — those words “with the consent” — but she 
strengthened herself with the assurance that she would 
have told her father everything had he appeared less hard 
and unkind. 

She was going to London. Mrs. Noble lived there. 
Mrs. Noble was an elderly woman who had been as good 
as a mother to Mary after her own mother’s death. She 
had been Stringer’s housekeeper until the latter’s now 
■well-defined idiosyncrasies drove her away. The homely 
and kind-hearted old, woman had often prophesied that 
the pig-headed churchwarden would drive his children 
to seek a refuge among strangers, and as a sort of em- 
phasis of her Sibylline faculty, she had told Mary, in 
Stringer’s own presence, that whenever she wanted a 
home outside of Thorbury, she would find one with her, 
Grannie Noble. 

Grannie Mag, as she was most often called, kept a 
small shop in Marlborough Road, Chelsea, a busy thor- 
oughfare principal^ occupied by sellers of cheap second- 
hand furniture and similar commodities. Her letters to 
Mary were written on note-paper bearing the lithographed 
heading “ The People’s Emporium.” Mary, remember- 
ing with something like awe a huge establishment in 
Birmingham similarly named, felt safe in trusting her- 
self to Grannie Noble’s care and guidance. She had 
saved up sufficient pocket-money to be sure of being 


208 


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able to pay her way for a couple of months at least 
whilst looking for a situation as parlor-maid or lady’s 
maid. She knew that she could get a good character 
from the housekeeper at the Chase. Before leaving 
Thorbury she had written a long letter to the old lady 
explaining to her why she had left her home. She was 
sure of protection from that quarter, and thereby felt 
herself armed to face the battle of life. 

All thought of Mr. Badger had faded from her mind, 
and she was occupied in forming plans for the imme- 
diate future, when the door of her compartment opened 
and the damaged Cornelius made his hurried entrance. 
In the dim light which prevailed in the carriage, she 
thought, first of all, that some inebriated person had 
been thrust in to take his place by her side, and she 
bridled up at the idea. A furtive glance soon proved 
to her, however, that the new-comer was more an object 
of pity than of repugnance. When she discovered who 
he really was, her feelings were of that mixed kind which 
is the invariable result of crowding a great many things 
into one little mind. Mary did not know whether to 
feel annoyed at meeting Mr. Badger so soon again, or 
to be glad that she was there, able to comfort him in his 
distress. He was hurt, sorely, that she could see, and 
— such is the perversity of maidenly reasoning — in 
the same flash of time she felt sure that he was hurt 
unjustly. The natural result of this self-argument was 
to dispel the reserve she would, under all other cir- 
cumstances, have shown, had Mr. Badger again ap- 
proached her of his own accord. Had the young man 
simply met her when the train stopped in London, his 
politest of bows and his oiliest of graces would have 
proved so much water on a duck’s back. He would 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


209 


have been repaid with the frigid acknowledgment of his 
courtesy, and Mary would have passed on her way, and 
would most probably forever have escaped Mr. Corne- 
lius’s pursuit. But Fate ordained it otherwise, for, 
surely, Mary could not possibly be cold and distant to 
him when she saw him before her in his pitiable plight. 

Now, Mr. Badger was neither a clever young man 
nor a student of nature, but he knew that pity is ever 
latent in the female breast. With the cunning which is 
an equal attribute of the monkey, the lunatic, and the 
blackleg, he was possessed of a certain amount of quick 
perception, and that quality spurred him to attack Mary 
where her armor was most vulnerable. She pitied him 
— lucky dog he thought himself to be so pitied — for 
that was already a step in the right direction. With 
voluble tongue he gave a description of his woes ; em- 
bellished his statement with adjective and adverb 
prettily chosen to catch the hearer’s sympathy. He 
told her of the assault committed upon him at Thor- 
bury, but he blamed not Miss Stringer’s highly re- 
spected father, not he. It was his, Mr. Badger’s, un- 
merited misfortune to have his, Mr. Badger’s, honorable 
intentions so undeservedly and completely misunder- 
stood by Mr. Stringer. He was doubly sorry, he was 
more sorry than he knew how to express, at the sur- 
prising discovery that Miss Stringer had left the pa- 
rental roof. As to his hurts they were nothing — mere 
scratches. His only sorrow was that, by their means, 
he had not been able to be of service to Miss Stringer. 

In the ordinary sequence of circumstances, even had 
the course of his true love run perfectly smooth, Mr. 
Badger could not have hoped to find himself tete-a-tete 
with her whom he loved, for a long time to come. 


210 


THE BISHOPS ' BIBLE. 


Here she was by his side, actually listening with atten- 
tive ears to his recital. The little hands twitched 
nervously, and the large gray eyes looked at him sym- 
pathetically, so that pain and wounds were speedily for- 
gotten. Mary’s own nimble fingers helped him to 
rearrange his disordered necktie. Mary’s best efforts 
were wasted in busy attempts to restore the sheen to 
his battered hat, and long before London was ap- 
proached, Mr. Badger was perfectly cognizant of Mrs. 
Noble’s address and the girl’s intentions regarding the 
future. 

When the London ticket platform was reached, Mr. 
Cornelius was rather glad than otherwise on being in- 
formed that his aggressors had decamped during one of 
the stoppages of the train. His fear all along had 
been that he would have to accompany the officers who 
would take the militiamen into custody, and that he 
would thus be unable to say good-by to Mary with any- 
thing like proper effect. Vindictiveness fought with 
self-interest in his bosom, and was vanquished, though 
not without a severe struggle. But he was in luck’s 
way that day — all incidents seemed to shape them- 
selves, in the end, to his favor. 

There was a perfect sea of faces on the Euston 
platform. A popular politician had been travelling by 
the train, and the station was crowded with his enthu- 
siastic adherents. Among that hurrying, pushing, 
shouting, swaying mass, Mary sought with anxious 
eyes her brother, whom she had asked by telegraph to 
meet her at the station. Luckily for her, Joseph wore 
Her Majesty’s livery, and the brilliant red of his jacket 
shone amid the gray, brown, and black surging hive like 
a solitary poppy in a green corn-field. Joseph, looking 


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211 


over the heads and hats of most of the crowd that sur- 
rounded him, had his attention attracted by the ener- 
getic waving of Mary’s parasol, and swiftly shouldered 
Ins way to the spot whence his sister nervously sought 
his assistance. 

“ So lie’s druv you away as he did me,” was the first 
brotherly greeting Mary received. “ I knew it would 
come, I did. I am glad to see you, Mary, though I 
ain’t glad in another way. Come now, let’s wake up ! 
Where’s your box? Mrs. Noble’s waiting in a cab out- 
side the station.” 

Mary had to confess with blushes that her worldly 
possessions were contained in an old carpet bag and 
divers paper parcels. Never having dreamed that she 
would have to leave her father’s house, she had not 
provided herself with a travelling-box. 

Mr. Corney Badger had vainly endeavored to show 
himself to his friend, Mr. Joseph Stringer, and his efforts 
were only rewarded by success when the life-guardsman, 
with a great parcel under each arm, and a carpet-bag 
dangling from one hand, turned to inform his sister that 
everything was ready. 

“ By Jove ! ” he exclaimed. The phrase was a favor- 
ite one with his officers, and he naturally imitated his 
superiors. “If it ain’t Corney ! Why, old chap, you 
have been goin’ it ! Who’s been makin’ a drumhead of 
your face ? There’ll be a rise in the price of raw steak 
when you get to Knightsbridge. Why, and, as I think 
of it, are you with Mary or is Mary with you ? ” With 
this he gave a long whistle. “ Come now,” he added ; 
“ own up, Mister Corney; which is it? ” 

Mary blushed at her brother’s speech, and drew her- 
self up indignantly. 


212 


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“ I’m ashamed of you, Joe,” she said haughtily ; “ Mr. 
Badger is not with me, and I’m not with him. Mr. 
Badger met me in the train. Some spiteful men as- 
saulted him, and the guard put him into my compart- 
| ment, and to show you that I’m not with Mr. Badger, 
I will, with your leave, say good-by to him now. Good- 
by to you, sir,” she said, extending a gloved hand, and 
bowing with a countrified courtesy. 

The furious glance which Mr. Corney shot sideways 
at his friend Joseph convinced the latter that — to use 
a term of his own phraseology — he had put his foot in 
it. The unsophisticated guardsman saw nothing im- 
proper in a little harmless flirtation, and if Mr. Corne- 
lius Badger courted Mary — honorably, of course — 
Joseph was quite ready and quite willing to assist him 
on his way. That Mr. Cornelius could be capable of 
acting otherwise than straightforwardly was a supposi- 
tion that never entered Joseph’s mind. He was there- 
fore rather sorry that he had — to use again his own 
style of language — put a spoke into Mr. Badger’s 
wheel. 

For the latter, there was no alternative but to accept 
the inevitable. He would have dearly liked to be so 
favored as to be allowed to accompany Mary on her 
journey Fulham wards. 

“ I hope Miss Stringer isn’t offended with me,” he 
said, bowing his politest, “ for I’d take my davy afore a 
judge an’ jury as such a hidea never entered my mind. 
Miss Stringer is ashamed of you, Joe, and so am I.” 

The air of injured innocence sat so defiantly on his 
bruised and swollen face, that Mary felt some misgiving 
lest she had treated Mr. Badger too harshly. There was 
just a little unconscious flutter at her heart as she 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


213 


thought that perhaps she might never see the young 
man again. She might have softened, and spoken a 
kindlier word, had not Grannie Noble at that very mo- 
ment appeared upon the scene and thrown her arms 
fervently round Mary’s neck. In the midst of that hug- 
ging, and that kissing, and those tears of welcome, 
wiped away on the one hand with a smudgy handker- 
chief, and on the other with clean cambric, Mr. Badger, 
his griefs, his hopes, and his personality were utterly 
forgotten, and when the four-wheeler containing Mary, 
her fortunes, and her friends rolled cumbrously towards 
the Fulham Road, Mr. Corney stowed himself and his 
box into a hansom. He was not in a pleasant mood, but 
he felt relieved by the thought that Mrs. Noble’s address 
was engraven upon his memory in indelible characters. 


214 


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CHAPTER XX. 

Joseph Stringer sat next to the driver on the box 
of the vehicle which carried Mary towards the Marl- 
borough Road. His legs were too long to be distributed 
comfortably among the various parcels and other articles 
which encumbered the seats. In addition to that, 
Trooper Joseph was much addicted to the use of the 
weed, and having invested two copper presentments of 
her Majesty in the purchase of two vile cigars, he longed 
for the quiet enjoyment of his favorite luxury. Grannie 
Noble objected to smoking. Mary also would have prob- 
ably entered her protest against the lighted cigar. 
Joseph was glad, therefore, of the liberty which the 
limited space at his disposal by the cabman’s side af- 
forded him. 

At the corner of Piccadilly the “growler” was 
stopped in the midst of the surging traffic. A perfect 
flood of cabs, carriages, omnibuses, and carts, crested by 
bobbing human heads, impeded further progress, and 
Joe was compelled to wile away a minute in furtive and 
necessarily futile attempts to kick over a lamp-post. 

While engaged in this not very exhilarating pastime, 
Trooper Stringer heard his name called, and looking up, 
or rather down, found himself addressed by no less a 
personage than Frank Boyer. 

“What are you doing up there, Joseph? ” inquired 
the Squire’s son with a friendly smile. “On guard, 
eh!” 


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215 


“ Glad to see you, Mr. Frank,” replied Joseph. 
“ Mary’s inside,” he added. “ Father’s druy her away 
from home, as he did me.” 

“ I am sorry to hear that,” exclaimed Frank. 

He rapped at the closed window of the cab. Mrs. 
Noble, suddenly recognizing the son of the lord of Thor- 
bury Chase, hastened to let down the glass partition. 
She made various attempts at a courtesy, and failing in 
these through the insufficiency of room, she extended a 
fat hand of welcome. 

“ I am sorry to hear you have had to leave Thorbury,” 
said Frank, addressing Mary, who blushed in crimson 
confusion. “It seems things did not go very smoothly 
at home. I know what that means. I have felt it for 
a long while now, and felt it bitterly. You are better 
off than I am, though, for you have got a dear, good old 
friend with you. You could not be better cared for any- 
where than you’ll be with Mrs. Noble.” 

“ Thank you kindly, Mr. Frank,” said the old woman, 
wiping a round and shining face. She was always 
perspiring, more or less, and the slightest excitement 
put her into febrile heat. 

“ Anything new at Thorbury ? ” inquired young 
Boyer. “I have had no news from the village or any 
one in it — my father included — these days past. 
How is — oh, I forgot you are not very great friends 
with them — at least your father is not. But you are ^ 
sure to know, all the same.” He hesitated for a 
moment, and then continued : “ How is Dr. Hay, and 
Mrs. Hay ” — another slight pause — “and Miss Hay?” 

“Haven’t you heard?” ejaculated Mary. “But of 
course you couldn’t very well know so soon. Thorbury 
Church was burned down last night, and they say — ” 


216 


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She stopped herself as she saw that the young man’s 
face had gone white. 

“What’s the matter with you, Mr. Frank?” she 
asked. u You are not ill, are you ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s nothing,” Frank replied. “ Nothing has 
happened to — ” he inquired anxiously, to — ? ” 

“ They did say at the village that the Rector was 
hurt at the fire. Some of them said that he was rather 
badly hurt.” 

At that moment the cab moved onwards, carried 
along in the tide of the traffic, and Mary, looking back 
out of the window, saw young Boyer force his way 
through the crowd on the pavement and rush across 
the road. He had not even said good-day. 

The news had, indeed, made a strong impression upon 
Frank. With the thought of Ophelia, and of her 
probable trouble, in his mind, he did not hesitate for 
an instant. He raced to his chambers, and less than 
an hour afterwards the evening express carried him 
towards the midlands. 

It was nigh on midnight when the last local train, 
much behind its time, steamed up to Thorbury Station. 
Half a mile to the west the village lay hushed in sleep. 
The only two persons who alighted from the train, 
besides Frank — an old man who kept a small haber- 
dasher’s and hosier’s shop, and a groom in the service 
of a gentleman in the neighborhood — after respect- 
fully saluting Frank, disappeared in the night. They, 
as well as the solitary porter, were wOll aware of the 
Squire’s quarrel with his son. The old railway porter’s 
cheery “ Haven’t seen you for a long time, Mr. Frank : 
glad to see you again,” sounded like a pleasant omen 
to the anxious one. He left his portmanteau and valise 


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217 


in charge of the station servant, who promised to de- 
liver it safely at the Fox and Dogs, and sauntered out 
into the black and lonely road which led to the village. 

In the distance beyond a light gleamed here and 
there between the trees. Further out still, to the right, 
the young man espied two tiny fiery specks, twinkling 
like twin stars. Near them was his hope, his love, for 
they were the lights of Thorbury Rectory. His pulse 
beat faster and his throat became dry as he communed 
with himself as to whether or not he dared knock at 
that door this night to obtain news to allay his anxiety. 
It was not a case of faint heart never won fair lady. 
For her he would have been brave under all circum- 
stances. As he strolled along in the inky, starless 
night, with no sound but the soughing of the trees and 
his’ own footfall upon the road audible in the air, he 
was tossed hither and thither in his mind in the vague 
endeavor to find a lucky thought to guide him rightly. 
He did not wish to appear careless of the welfare and 
the sorrows of his beloved one and of those whom she 
loved. But an intrusion upon them at this unseason- 
able hour seemed unjustifiable, and he must needs 
persuade himself to wait until the early morning had 
called the household of the Rectory to its daily 
duties. 

The Fox and Dogs was nominally and legally closed 
to all but those who could claim that they were bond- 
jide travellers, in accordance with the definition of that 
status by Act of Parliament. The provisions of the 
Legislature notwithstanding, two or three of the village 
cronies were seated in the inn parlor, sipping their ale 
and smoking their long pipes, when Frank entered, and 
— mirabile dictu — the principal instigator of this con- 


218 


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travention of the laws of his country was no less a per- 
son than Mr. Isaac Stringer. 

The reader may well wonder how a man so accus- 
tomed to abide by the laws of his nation, and so strict 
in exacting the observance of his own views from others, 
came to expose both himself and the landlord to the risk 
of being summoned and fined. Mr. Stringer, like most 
mortals, was selfish. He was perfectly well-prepared, 
in this case, if need be, to suffer in his pocket for the 
offence he was then committing; and had he been 
mulcted in the sum of five- and-twenty shillings and 
costs then and there, he would have paid without grum- 
bling. It was, perhaps, not a matter of utter indiffer- 
ence to him that the landlord also exposed himself to 
punishment, but in this case egotism easily overcame 
discretion and neighborly love. 

The fact was that Mr. Stringer was utterly wretched 
and miserable. He might well try to play the Roman 
father, but he found the attempt very onerous. He 
had to confess to himself that he had not at all the 
shape and form of a Roman father. He had seen 
pictures of them. They were all lean and sinewy, and 
he was rotund and comfortable. 

And then Mary had spoiled him so. Everything 
that he required was always set ready for him, and now 
the place was deserted. He could not find what he 
wanted, and times were altogether out of joint. 

He had been sitting in his parlor for hours. Dark- 
ness had stolen in upon him, and he had not moved 
even to get a light. At last the shadows of his gloomy 
thoughts palled upon him, and, rising abruptly, he had 
put on his hat and had gone out, slamming the door 
behind him. He found himself at the village inn before 


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219 


he knew how he got there. The Fox and Dogs was 
not often honored by a visit from Mr. Stringer, but on 
this occasion the churchwarden made up for the infre- 
quency of his visits by the prolongation of his stay. 

Mr. Stringer found the small talk of the village 
cronies strangely gratifying. He might have remem- 
bered occasions without number when he would have 
felt disposed to quarrel with nineteen out of twenty of 
the arguments advanced, but now he was the most 
docile and amiable of men. He could not tear himself 
away, and he would not allow the others to tear them- 
selves away. Thus it came that he was not only an 
offender against the law, but the cause of offence in 
others. 

Without, the street was as silent as the great desert. 
No footfall disturbed the stillness of the night. A 
visitor at such an hour was a rara avis at the Fox and 
Dogs. The solitary village constable had gone to sleep 
long ago, and the law-breakers sat around the heavy 
oak table in such certainty of freedom from intrusion 
and detection that they did not even think it necessary 
to bolt the door. 

The sound of the latch, moved by Frank Boyer’s 
hand, followed by his appearance in the doorway, acted 
upon the small assembly like the shrill call of a vulture 
upon a dove-cote. Everybody tried to get out of each 
other’s way, and got into each other’s way thereby. 
There ensued the most ridiculous confusion, and hiding 
of pots, and looking at one another, until thoy were 
rallied into something like self-possession by a peal of 
laughter from Frank. 

“ Don’t mind me, gentlemen,” he said, “ don’t mind 
me. I am not going to turn informer and earn half the 
fine, I can assure you.” 


220 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


The spirit of quiet enjoyment, however, had departed. 
Stringer, with his gyrating hat fidgeting more nervously 
than ever, shuffled disconsolately out of the place. 
When the leader had departed, the villagers were not 
long in following his example, and Frank was left the 
solitary occupant of the old-fashioned, oak-panelled, and 
oak-fitted room. 

The Fox and Dogs owned but one really good guest- 
chamber, and that, of course, was assigned to Frank. 
He felt little disposed to sleep, though. He ordered a 
glass of whiskey and water, and sat himself down on 
the high-backed seat by the side of the huge hooded 
fireplace, thinking, dreaming. 

He was nearer to Ophelia than he had been for some 
time past, and that fact made him feel happier than he 
had been of late. How blessed is youth to be able to 
build an Elysium for itself out of its mere imaginings ? 
In 1 the delightful fervor of his five-and-twenty summers, 
Frank could construct a fairy bridge by which to pass 
into his darling’s close presence. 

He sat there, with his head leaning upon his arm, 
and his foot kicked against the big, polished brass dog 
of the fireplace. The shining round knob became a 
magic crystal, in which, at his fancied bidding, the face 
of his loved one appeared. She was mournful ; he 
knew that she could not possibly be otherwise with the 
Rector lying on a couch of pain. But she was glad to 
see him, nevertheless. That he knew also Avith a con- 
vincing certainty. He kept staring at the burnished 
metal until he nearly hypnotized himself into a semi- 
trance. In that state he became prophetic to himself, 
and he fancied he could hear his father’s voice welcom- 
ing him cheerily, and actually consenting to his union 


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221 


with Ophelia. And she — she looked into his eyes, 
happy and smiling — and he himself was gladder than 
he ever thought he dared to be. 

He was roused from his reverie by the landlord’s 
voice. 

“It’s nigh on two o’clock, Master Frank; and I tek 
the liberty for to say as I’m a-goin’ to bed. You sit up 
if you like, Master Frank.” 

Young Boyer looked up and saw him shuffling with 
slippered feet out of the room. His measured footfall 
could be heard on the stairs, and was lost with the 
closing of a door on the landing above. 

Frank did not feel in the least bit inclined to sleep. 
He was alone with his thoughts, and found them at 
that moment rather pleasant company which he did not 
care to lose. 

He opened the door and looked out into the calm, 
still night. Stars and moon were alike hidden behind 
the clouds, and the houses on the opposite side of the 
wide village street loomed like phantoms. Frank tried to 
peer into the darkness, but his eyes had grown moment- 
arily accustomed to the light of the room, and aided 
him but feebly. Little by little, however, his visionary 
power increased, and far away to his right he thought 
he could perceive a tiny speck of light. The effect of 
that wee gleam lipon him was wonderful. Somebody 
was evidently up and awake at the Rectory. Perhaps 
it was Ophelia ! The bare thought of such a possibility 
made Frank’s blood course more hotly through his 
veins. 

He put on his hat, and, closing the inn door behind 
him, strolled out. His steps sounded upon the little 
round stones of the sidewalk like dull taps on a rever- 


222 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


bergting drum. A couple of hundred yards further on 
he came to the softer macadamized road. He seemed 
to be in no hurry, but, like a connoisseur with a glass 
of old port, he tried to spin out the short-lived enjoy- 
ment as much as possible. He stopped to light a cigar, 
and then sauntered on again leisurely, fearful to ap- 
proach his goal too suddenly, and to find his delightful 
dream vanishing into thin air. He was not permitted 
to continue much farther before disappointment as- 
serted its sway. When he reached the rising ground 
near Thorbury Church, he saw that the gleam of light 
which he had perceived all along did not proceed from 
any window in the Rectory, but from the glowing em- 
bers of a watchman’s fire within Thorbury churchyard. 
He made straight for it, and found, seated on a low 
tombstone in front of it, the sexton Habakkuk, mutter- 
ing in his drowsiness. 

44 The ugly toad ! ” Habakkuk murmured , 44 the pison- 
ous reptile ! He a churchwarden ! The son of Satan ! 
He a-sayin’ as the Rector stole th’ ode Bible. I’d shove 
his lies down his black throat. He a-settin’ of hisself up 
for to judge his betters. It makes me sick, it do.” 

Frank stood by and listened smilingly. Somebody 
had evidently aroused the old man’s wrath, and Frank 
shrewdly surmised that that somebody was Isaac 
Stringer. 

44 And that theer silly hodeedod of a Jonah. Can’t 
sleep in church without settin’ fire to it. And all 
through that heap of unchristianlike spitefulness, 
a-grumblin’ and a-growlin’ about things as he ought to 
have abode by. I’d like to have my way in parish just 
for — ” 

He started up suddenly and glared with frightened 


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223 


eyes at the unoffending Frank, who was standing the 
other side of the half-extinguished fire. 

Young Boyer could not prevent himself from laughing 
outright. There was something grotesquely pathetic 
about the old man’s intense tremor. 

44 It do be Master Frank to be sure, or ni}^ old eyes 
deceive me ! ” the old man cried out at last. 44 Oh, dear! 
oh, dear ! What will the Squire say ? And you out at 
this time o’ night instead of bein’ betwixt the sheets.” 

44 I’ve come to ask you a question or two, Habakkuk,” 
said Frank. 44 How is Dr. Hay ? ” 

44 Oh, he’s better, thank you, sir,” the old sexton re- 
plied, very much as though he were responding to a 
sympathetic inquiry concerning a member of his own 
family. 44 He's been asleep all the hevenin’, and may 
be now, and that’s a lot, you know.” 

44 And Mrs. Hay?” Frank inquired tremblingly. 
44 And Miss Ophelia ? ” 

The moon had escaped from its cloudy prison, and 
was peering out upon the tranquil scene from a broad 
patch of deep-blue sky. Just one attendant star glim- 
mered faintly near the silvery edge of the surrounding 
fleecy masses. The ghostly light spread itself over 
God’s acre, and swathed cypress, cedar, elm, and plane 
as with a bluish silken gauze. A little way beyond, 
across the low, moss-covered stone wall and the half- 
rusty iron railings, a portion of the Rectory stood 
darkly against the sky, the trees in its background jut- 
ting out above its roof. An impulse, an inspiration, 
made Frank look that way, and if he had beheld an 
angel at that moment, the young man thought, he could 
not have felt happier. For there, in the midst of a 
bright panel formed by the opened window of a lighted 


224 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


room, his glad eyes saw a dark figure, the figure of a 
woman, and that woman he knew was Ophelia. 

He would have journeyed to Siberia, and, being so 
gratified, would have been content. 

Half an hour afterwards he was sitting in his bed- 
room composing love-letters by the light of his one tallow 
candle. Not one did he deem worthy of her to whom 
they were addressed, and he tore them up, half filling 
the empty grate with a perfect shower of paper frag- 
ments. He fell asleep over his labor of love, and the 
early rosy dawn, creeping through the curtained win- 
dow, found him booted and coated, sleeping soundly on 
his chair. 


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225 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The broad day streamed gladly into the room, and 
millions upon millions of scintillating atoms danced in 
the wide streak of prismatic sunlight which brightened 
and cheered one-half of the country chamber. Frank, 
with his arms dangling by his side, with his head 
resting against the back of his chair, and with his legs 
stretched far and wide, was still soundly asleep. A 
rosy-faced and bright auburn-haired chambermaid, after 
knocking half a dozen times timidly at the door without 
eliciting a response — afraid lest something might be 
amiss — tried the lock, and ventured to cast a sly 
glance into the room. The sharp snap of the bolt as 
she quickly slammed the door again fell on Frank’s 
drowsy ear and woke him. He moved uncomfortably 
in his chair, and reached out a fumbling hand as if 
trying to find the bed on which he ought to have been 
lying. Then he sat bolt-upright, and looked about him 
wonderingly, the boots on his feet furnishing the largest 
share of his crop of amazement. 

No young man in the early twenties, enjoying sound 
health, is ever much discomforted by sleeping in a 
comfortless position. Frank was five-and-twenty, a 
perfect athlete, of wholesome mind and disposition. 
He shook himself together, and laughed at himself for 
having chosen so peculiar a place of repose. He had 
slept more soundly there than many a princess under 
her satin coverlet. A great tub full of cold water 


226 


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brought by the ostler soon left him hearty, vigorous, 
and refreshed. 

He partook of a hasty breakfast, and sauntered out 
into the street. He was a universal favorite in the 
village, and many were the greetings from man, woman, 
and child which sped him on his road. When he came 
to the gate which led to the Rectory his hand trembled 
on the latch, and his step became slower and less 
decided as he walked along the gravelled path between 
the dwarf roses and fuchsias which bordered the lawns. 

In spite of the matutinal hour the whole Rectory was 
already fully astir. The great surgeon from Birming- 
ham was there, and the famous oculist from London 
had come with him. They both had important duties 
to attend to later in the day, and had therefore chosen 
this early hour for their consultation about Dr. Hay’s 
condition. 

Frank was shown into the morning-room, in which 
the Rector generally used to receive ordinary visitors. 
He walked about the place anxiously, and the minutes 
became weeks. He commenced drumming with his 
fingers against the panes of the long window, left it for 
a moment, and went back to resume his nervous rata- 
plan. Time after time he looked over his shoulder, but 
that awful door would not open and give admittance to 
her whom he awaited so fervently. He strained his 
ears, and listened for the rustling of a dress outside. 
He fancied he heard one, but it passed in a moment. 
It had evidently been only a servant. Then he went 
to the table, and made an energetic pretence of reading 
title-pages and ends of volumes. He did a dozen little 
things, each of them intended to make the time appear 
short, and each of them a failure. 


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227 


He passed about five minutes like this, but he would 
fearlessly have asserted that five quarters of an hour 
had elapsed since he set his foot into the room. The 
rustling of a lady’s dress was heard outside. There 
was no mistake this time, for the starched skirts in 
fashion at that period produced a sound peculiar to 
themselves. The next moment was one of such joy 
that its tempering sadness was overlooked. Her little 
hand rested in his. Her pale face was bent towards 
his. Her dreamy eyes peered into his with an assured 
tenderness. Evep the tears which coursed down her 
dimpled cheeks left her prettier and more lovable in his 
eyes than she had appeared in those glad moments 
when, linked arm in arm, they had strolled across the 
verdant meadows in the tranquil bliss of early courtship. 

How the soft fingers trembled ! Neither of them had 
spoken a word, and each had, with mute eyes, asked a 
score of questions, as mutely and as eloquently an- 
swered. At last she withdrew herself from him gently, 
slowly. 

“They are upstairs,” she said. “The doctors are 
having a consultation, and he is so brave, and so pa- 
tient, and so humbly prepared for everything.” 

“What do you mean, my dear?” said Frank softly. 
“ You alarm me.” 

“ Dr. Rolfe has not told us. Auntie has asked him, 
but he has put her off with evasive and ambiguous re- 
plies. I suppose we shall know all about it soon.” 

Mrs. Hay entered at that moment and gave Frank a 
mournful welcome. 

“ Dr Rolfe and Dr. Burns,” she said, “ have just gone 
down into Denis’s study. Denis has heard that you 
are here, and has asked for you, and Dr. Rolfe has 


228 


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given permission that you may be brought into the 
room.” 

He followed the ladies upstairs. The whole floor 
seemed hushed, and the servants walked about silently 
like flitting ghosts. They passed through one room, 
where the light was already excluded by drawn blinds, 
into another where nearly absolute darkness prevailed, 
except in one corner where a shaded lamp threw a yel- 
lowish light against a large screen that protected the 
rest of the room from the intruding glare. 

“ Frank is here, Denis,” said Mrs. Hay, leading the 
young man to her husband’s bedside, while Ophelia 
remained at the door tremblingly. 

Young Boyer felt the Rector’s hand in his burning 
hot. 

“ Thank you for having come to see me, Frank,” said 
the quiet, patient voice. 

The indestructible good-humor asserted itself even in 
the midst of sorrow. 

“I am such an object to look at,” continued the Rec- 
tor, “ that they will not allow anybody to see me, or 
me to see anybody else. I think I can tell them, 
though, what they are going to tell me by and by. I 
tried to look when they took the bandages off a little 
while ago. I can’t see a bit, Frank — not a little bit 
— not a gleam.” The feverish hand pressed the young 
man’s a little more nervously as the sentence drew to 
its close. That was all. 

That was all ! And yet it meant so much. It meant 
life and light. It meant hope and strength. It meant 
ability to toil in the fields of Christian harvest. It 
meant his mission on earth, and perhaps his ministry. 

Danger threatened his eyesight. They all knew that. 


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229 


They all dreaded lest it might be already lost, and now 
he so quietly, calmly, so resignedly, spoke of it as gone. 
The daylight vanished from his noon of life, leaving 
him helpless. 

“ Don’t talk like that, dearest,” Mrs. Hay said, in 
tearful accents. “Don’t think of it. We shall soon 
know the worst ; but until we have it from the doctor’s 
lips, why anticipate it ? ” 

“Ah, my dear! ” the Rector answered. “I know it 
as well as they. I feel it. And when the worst comes 
to the worst, was not Homer blind, and Milton ? And 
so many good men have gone through useful lives 
without seeing daylight ! I shall have to rely upon you 
more than I have ever done, and you won’t fail me, I 
know.” 

Ophelia’s sobs burst upon the quiet of the room like 
a ripple of bitterness. 

“ Don’t cry, my dear,” the Rector called out. “ Come 
here. Come here to me.” 

She approached, and the Rector reached out a search- 
ing hand. 

“ There’s somebody here,” he said, “ who’ll take care 
of you when I can’t. I’m glad now, Frank, you didn’t 
give the little girl up. She may need your support 
when mine may be nigh on useless.” 

All this while not a word about his pains, not a 
syllable about sufferings, and yet they were such as few 
of us would bear unmurmuringly. 

There are heroes who never stepped on battlefield. 
There are simple, homely martyrs, more lowly perhaps, 
and less awesome in their endurances, than the men 
who faced the stake at Smithfield, but not less worthy 
of our sympathy and of our admiration. 


230 


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Frank felt that a solemn charge had been laid upon 
him which he was only too glad to accept. He had the 
Rector’s consent for his future union with Ophelia, but 
Dr. Hay’s words, at this trying moment, seemed to set 
the seal of final approval upon his hopes. “ Take care 
of her!” Why, it was his dream of happiness on 
earth to be allowed to take care of her. Their fingers 
touched with that thrill of excitement which springs 
only from pure love. His hour of pain brought their 
mixture of joy and sorrow .to them, and they were only 
human in feeling both equally. 

The great men had finished their consultation, and 
had sent a message that they wished to see Mrs. Hay 
downstairs. The Birmingham surgeon was a short, 
thick-set man, with broad shoulders and a leonine head. 
He had a habit of folding his hands underneath his coat- 
tails behind his back, and of bending his head forward 
when he spoke. He had a voice as clear as a deep- 
sounding bell. He was a man who used little figure of 
speech, always straight to the point, and clear and inci- 
sive in his address. 

The London oculist differed from his colleague, as far 
as personal appearance went, in nearly every particular. 
He was taller and slighter than the latter, of a delicate 
complexion, admirably set off by a light-brown beard 
and mustache. Vast numbers of aristocratic patients — 
nervous, irritable people who paid immense fees — had 
inculcated him with a peculiar softness and quietude of 
address and bearing. There was always a pleasing smile 
on his face, and few people left his consulting-room ab- 
solutely bereft of hope. Yet there was no oculist 
quicker at diagnosis or sounder in judgment than he. 

Mrs. Hay was not long left in suspense when she found 


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231 


herself in the presence of the two surgeons. Mr. Rolfe’s 
massive form first met her eye. The Birmingham sur- 
geon, who had been in converse with his colleague, turned 
towards her, rather sharply, she thought. 

“ Mr. Burns and I have carefully considered your 
husband’s case,” he said, “ and we have both come to the 
conclusion that it would be cruel and unwise,” — Mrs. 
Hay’s trembling hand clutched the back of a chair, and 
she held on to it for support as if in fear of grim death. 
The surgeon looked at her blanched cheeks for a mere 
second, and continued — “ that it would be unwise to 
conceal from you or from Dr. Hay the fact that his eye- 
sight is injured beyond hope of recovery.” 

The poor lady staggered half fainting to a seat and 
sat down. 

“ No hope ! no hope ! no hope ! ” she whimpered, 
wringing her hands. “ My poor Denis ! No hope what- 
ever, did you say ? ” 

Mr. Burns stepped to her side, and his voice sounded 
so soft and gentle to her, so soothingly sympathetic, 
after the Birmingham surgeon’s deep staccato. 

“We are very sorry, Mrs. Hay,” he said; “we are 
both very, very sorry. But your husband is a Christian 
minister, and, after calmly reviewing the facts, we came 
to the conclusion that both you and he would have suffi- 
cient fortitude to be able to bear the knowledge of the 
worst, and that you would thank us in the end for not 
having kept you too long in doubt. It would be useless, 
at this moment, to trouble you with a scientific descrip- 
tion. Mr. Rolfe will write it out for your future 
perusal, and in following his instructions, you obey also 
mine.” 

The blow had fallen, and, when she turned for a 


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second, she saw standing in the open door Ophelia, with 
a face as white as a sheet, wringing the cambric hand- 
kerchief she held in her hands, and F rank with a coun- 
tenance nearly as pale as the girl’s. She was saved the 
torture of telling them, at any rate, and he who lay so 
patiently upstairs barety need be told. He had already 
advised them of what was in store for him. 

The two surgeons were gone, and the ladies sat down 
to a feeble pretence of a breakfast. Frank, who had 
already partaken of his morning meal, joined them, and 
sat, with an empty plate before him, opposite Ophelia. 
None of them had, before that day, sat down to so cheer- 
less a meal. There was no conversation ; the ladies 
seemed lost in their own miserable thoughts, and Frank 
had neither the heart nor the pluck to address them with 
commonplaces. 

The tea was removed without Mrs. Hay or Ophelia 
having sipped a drop, and the more solid food was sent 
away similarly untouched. Ophelia was gazing into the 
white china plate in front of her, sighing from time to 
time, and now and then wiping away a tear, and Mrs. 
Hay sat with folded hands, looking stonily through the 
open window out on to the lawn. Frank with dry linger 
drew imaginary, invisible, grotesque figures on his un- 
opened napkin, and moistened his parched lips with his 
tongue. 

The dishes and the plates were cleared away by noise- 
lessly moving servants who had caught the sorrowful in- 
fection, but neither Ophelia nor Mrs. Hay budged from 
their places. At last Mrs. Hay rose, and crossing to her 
niece, kissed the latter on the forehead. Ophelia silently 
and tearfully pressed her aunt’s hand. 

You are going to tell uncle ? ” she asked. 


THE BISHOPS * BIBLE. 


233 


Mrs. Hay nodded her head. 

“ God keep you ! ” Ophelia whispered ; “ God keep 
you and him ! ” 

Another kiss on the forehead, and the ladies parted 
silently. The afflicted wife bent her steps upstairs with 
a heart weighed down by the heavy tidings which she 
bore to that room of suffering. 

When Mrs. Hay had left the room, Frank rose, and 
stepping behind Ophelia’s chair, took the girl’s head in 
his hands, and turned her face up towards him. 

“ You’re a brave darling,” he said ; “ a good, dear, 
brave girl. But don’t break my heart by letting me see 
that you are so very, very miserable.” 

She looked at him for a moment, and without a word 
began to cry. 

“ Oh, hang it all ! ” Frank exclaimed, “ I’ve done it 
now. I’m a brute. I’ve made you cry. I ought to 
bite my tongue off. Don’t, don’t, there’s a dear ! ” 

He looked down upon her so piteously, with his 
whole soul of love streaming from his eyes, that she 
never knew how she came to do it, nor why, but she 
flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. Then, 
as if struck with all the enormity of her conduct, she 
pushed him away, from her, and fled like a frightened 
fawn from the room. 

Frank sat by that table for a few moments like one 
dazed. He did not notice the butler who entered the 
room, salver in hand, bringing a telegram. 

“Here’s a telegram for the Rector, Mister Frank,” 
the man said, “ and I don’t know what to do with it. 
I don’t like to disturb the Rector, nor yet Mrs. Hay, 
nor yet Miss Ophelia — not just now, I don’t. And I 
thought, if you don’t mind, Mister Frank, I’d bring 


234 


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it to you, and you’d tell me what I ought to do with 
it.” 

“ You can leave it here,” young Boyer replied, and 
the man, placing the missive on the table, went out as 
noiselessly as he had entered. 

Some twenty minutes or more passed before Mrs. 
Hay returned. 

44 1 have told him,” she said, 44 and he simply replied, 
4 The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed 
be the name of the Lord.’ He is asleep now. The 
knowledge of his fate seems to have brought repose to 
him.” 

Her eyes fell on the telegram, and she opened it. 

44 Thank Heaven for this mercy ! ” she exclaimed, and 
handed the paper to Frank. 

It came from Saint Sauveur. 

44 Reinemann and Mac Wraith,” it ran, “have fled 
country. Have nearly conclusive proof of their con- 
spiracy and fraud. Have placed matter in hands of 
police.” 


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235 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The news o* the Rector’s sad fate spread through 
Thorbury like wildfire, and divided the population into 
two distinct and bitterly hostile parties. One section 
of the parishioners, devotedly attached to their minister, 
and thoroughly appreciative of his noble qualities, 
traced their pastor’s misfortune clearly home to Mr. 
Stringer’s unwarrantable and mischievous interference 
in matters which concerned him not. It had, by that 
time, become open talk in the village that the Bible 
rescued by the Rector from the fire was a valueless 
imitation. The Rector’s friends naturally considered 
him an innocent victim, and asserted that he had re- 
pelled the unfounded charge brought against his char- 
acter by an exhibition of fortitude worthy of a Christian 
martyr. The Stringer faction, on the other hand, with 
the redoubtable churchwarden at their head, were only 
embittered by the renewed and strenuous opposition 
they encountered. They proclaimed publicly that they 
considered the Rector s affliction a just punishment, not 
only for his popish practices, but also for the fraud, of 
which he had been, some went so far as to say, a willing 
or a careless accomplice. 

This feud asserted itself openly on the following day, 
the Sabbath, when the service of the Holy Church was, 
by the Rector’s direction, held by a newly engaged 
curate in the schoolroom, the only building in the vil- 
lage suitable for such a purpose. The place would have 


236 


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been much too small to receive all the habitual church- 
goers. On this particular occasion, however, the popu- 
lation of the village of Thorbury turned out en masse. 
Nonconformists, who usually frequented a chapel at Hey- 
don Hay — quite a little crowd of them — entirely filled 
one corner of the long, bare room, whilst men, and women 
too for that, who had been stiff-necked and stubborn to 
all Dr. Hay’s ministerial advances, seemed suddenly 
possessed of a desire to reap some of the benefits 
offered them by England’s Church. 

The doorway of the schoolroom, broad enough for 
the children who swarmed in and out with shrill pipings, 
afforded but insufficient means of entrance. Soon it 
was blocked up altogether. Habakkuk had been busy 
in assigning to such of the village aristocracy as had 
already appeared places in accordance with their posi- 
tion. The two front forms had been left vacant, one 
for the Rector’s family, and one for the Squire, but 
right up to these, filling up even the gangways and the 
window-sills, surged a thick mass, wedged together by 
every one man’s and woman’s efforts to be so placed as 
to obtain a good view of the Rector’s family. 

The dead sound of undertoned conversation hushed 
suddenly as Mrs. Hay, Ophelia, and Frank entered by 
the small side-door generally used by the school-mistress. 

The ladies wore dark dresses, and thick veils hid the 
traces of recent tears. A box containing a replenish- 
ment of the Rector’s pew-library had been sent to the 
schoolroom, and Frank, who was stooping down to take 
from it the service books they required, did not notice 
that the small door had once more opened, and that his 
father, accompanied by an old gentleman, a neighbor, 
had entered the place. He was still engaged in sorting 


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287 


out the necessary books when the Squire stopped in 
front of him for a moment, in evident hesitation. The 
ladies looked timidly upon father and son from behind 
their veils, and a perfect hum of audible excitement 
rose and swelled through the room. When Frank raised 
his head on noticing the unusual hushed murmur, Mar- 
maduke Boyer had already stepped to the front bench 
on the other side, where he was in the act of taking his 
seat, when Frank unconsciously rose in his turn, and 
looked his father straight in the face, with a counte- 
nance so manly and so appealing, that the Squire, who 
had tasted the misery of a lonely life more than he cared, 
jumped up, and, walking straight to the young man, 
took his outstretched hand between his two and wrung 
it heartily, while a big tear ran down his ruddy face. 
Then, shaking both ladies by the hand, he took his son’s 
arm and made him sit down on the bench by his side. 
All Thorbury had witnessed the open reconciliation of 
father and son, which at the same time seemed to con- 
vey the Squire’s espousal of the Rectory cause. Many 
a throat there would have given a ringing cheer, had any 
of them dared to show their enthusiasm in the temporary 
house of God. Some such manifestation was actually 
threatened among a little knot of injudicious partisans 
of Dr. Hay, when the small door at the further end 
again opened, and Mr. Stringer sailed in, solemn and 
stolid, with his jaws firm-set, and a look of uncompro- 
mising determination about his face. He was dressed 
in his shiniest of broadcloth, with his whitest of collars, 
and his blackest of stocks. 

Then happened an incident which might have led to 
an explosion of feeling within the school-building itself, 
but which was providentially averted as we shall see. 


238 


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Habakkuk had either unintentionally, or with malice 
aforethought, not provided a seat for Mr. Stringer. 
Each of the forms afforded accommodation for only 
three persons. All of them were fully, and some of 
them more than fully, occupied. The crowd thronged 
in a thick mass right up to the front benches. The first 
form on the right of the room was fully occupied by the 
Squire, the gentleman who was with him, and Frank. 
The only possible seat for Mr. Stringer was next to Mrs. 
Hay. 

The burly churchwarden stood hat in hand looking 
right and looking left, looking in front of him and look- 
ing behind him. He scowled, and glared, and coughed, 
and bit his lip, and stretched his neck. Mr. Stringer was 
not an adept in the art of concealing emotion, and his 
annoyance at being treated with what he considered 
contumely was visible to everybody. 

No one could tell what the upshot might have been 
had not Mrs. Hay, with the most studied politeness, 
moved to one side and beckoned Stringer to take his 
place beside her. Thus challenged to an exhibition of 
gentlemanly demeanor, Mr. Isaac Stringer was com- 
pelled to submit with inward grumblings. He sat down 
on the corner of the form, but sat down sideways and 
edgeways, shaking his head as if his gyrating hat still 
required to be kept in submission. Even when the con- 
gregation rose, Mr. Stringer persisted, as he did indeed 
all through the service, in half turning his back, as if 
the poor ladies were his mortal enemies, and he was tol- 
erating their presence with Christian forbearance. 

The service naturally passed off smoothly enough. 
The new curate had preached a short and rather com- 
monplace sermon, in which none of the doctrines in dis- 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


239 


pute between the parties were touched upon. He was 
a pupil of an old friend of Dr. Hay’s, and had passed a 
couple of years of never ceasing and untiring devotion 
among the poorest of the poor in the great hive of un- 
speakable misery at the East End of the Metropolis. 
He was glad to escape, even if it were for a breathing- 
space only, into the pure and invigorating air of the 
Midland fields and pastures. Quiet and unassuming, he 
became an immediate favorite, and more than one spite- 
ful remark was passed, after the service was over, among 
the adherents of the Stringer faction : “ What a differ- 
ence theer is between the new curate and the Rector.” 

If Habakkuk had intentionally forgotten to provide 
fitting accommodation ^ for the churchwarden of the 
parish, Mr. Stringer had made up his mind to lose no 
time in bringing the recalcitrant one to book. Such 
insubordination was not to be put up with. Mr. Stringer, 
regardless of the Sabbath day, promised himself all 
through the service that he would discuss the matter 
with the sexton, after his own fashion, the moment he 
could find an opportunity. Mr. Stringer was even 
determined enough to vow that he would make an 
opportunity, if none would present itself of its own 
accord. 

The big room was nearly empty. Mrs. Hay and 
Ophelia had left, and the Squire and his friend and 
Frank had followed them. The congregation had 
trickled out, one by one, and was spread all over the 
village street. Half a dozen elderly men and women 
were still loitering in the lower corner near the entrance, 
all agog with excitement as to what would happen when 
Mr. Stringer found himself alone with Habakkuk. 

The churchwarden, with his small hat placed firmly 


240 


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on his big head, with both hands in his trousers pockets, 
and with legs far apart, was standing close beside the 
open little private door. The old man was busy lock- 
ing up the borrowed church-service in one of the 
schoolroom cupboards. He seemed totally unabashed 
by Mr. Stringer’s threatening presence. He went about 
his duties mechanically and unconcernedly. He neither 
hurried himself nor did aught slower than was his wont 
upon other occasions. When he had quite finished he 
looked about to see if everything was safe, and then, 
with his usual rapid shuffle, he collected his hat, his 
stick, and his worn gloves. All the three passages 
were open to him. He might have made his exit along 
the centre gangway by the broad lower door, and Mr. 
Stringer would have had to run after him to intercept 
him. But if the churchwarden was pig-headed, Habak- 
kuk Wood yielded him not a jot in bull-dog obstinacy 
and terrier-like disposition to fight. 

Stringer evidently meant to have it out with him, 
and the old man chuckled at the idea that he would 
give his opponent every opportunity. If there was one 
man in the parish who was not afraid of Mr. Stringer, 
that man was Habakkuk Wood. If there was one man 
in the same community who would give the church- 
warden tit for tat on each and every occasion, with or 
without provocation, that man was again Habakkuk 
Wood. The old man actually quivered with pleasurable 
excitement, like a war-horse at the call of the trumpet. 

Habakkuk’s face was creaming with a grin which Mr. 
Stringer considered most objectionable and subversive 
of church discipline. Habakkuk shuffled towards the 
door, and in doing so looked past the churchwarden as 
if the latter were not existent. One might have 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


241 


thought he was intently engaged in counting the 
pigeons on the roof of the corn-chandler’s on the oppo- 
site side of the way. He had already one foot on the 
sill of the door, when Mr. Stringer pushed his own 
portly presence in front of him. The burly one was, 
by his own action, compelled to step backward into the 
street, as the old sexton would not budge an inch. The 
result of this movement was that a crowd collected 
immediately round the pair. Men, women, and children 
hurried up in troops and formed a semi-circle, all 
awaiting the t commencement of the coming fray. 

Mr. Stringer began operations by taking off his hat, 
and bowing with mock politeness. 

“Habakkuk Wood,” he said, “Mr. Habakkuk Wood. 
You’re sexton of this parish and I’m churchwarden. 
Might I tek the liberty to ask why you give seats this 
morning to every person except me ? ” 

The aggravating grin never left Habakkuk’s face. 
He was evidently intent on irritating and annoying his 
opponent. 

“You mayn’t tek the liberty, Isaac Stringer,” he 
replied, and took a step forward to shoulder his way 
through the crowd. 

Habakkuk had, however, chosen a most unfortunate 
spot by which to make his egress. He found himself 
face to face with half a dozen of Stringer’s stanchest 
supporters. Two of them, great hulking, smock-frocked 
farm laborers, made themselves as broad as they could, 
and closed up tightly to one another, so as to bar Mr. 
Wood’s progress. A buxom, red-faced woman by their 
side even put out a hand to stop the old man from 
passing by. 

Mr. Stringer felt that the balance of power was on 


242 


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his side, and his innate shrewdness told him that he 
might play a master-stroke by which to increase his 
popularity with his own party, and greatly damage his 
enemies. 

“ Friends,” he said, looking round the circle with 
well-assumed indignation, “you see how this man’s a- 
treatin’ me. That’s been his game and the Rector’s all 
along. Hinsolence, hinjustice, and defiance of the law. 
We all know what it’s brought to the Rector, but I’ll 
tek care as we sha’n’t be mixed up in it. We’ll sit 
apart from ’em. We’ll sit apart from ’em in the church, 
and we won’t have anything to do with ’em anywheer 
else. That's what we’ll do, my friends.” 

Isaac Stringer thought that by this speech he had 
spoken a sort of major excommunication against the 
Rector, and all who sided with him. He stood there 
like a fat and pompous Nemesis pronouncing the doom 
of all those who differed from him, and he might have 
been left to enjoy a high opinion about his elocutionary 
effort, had not Habakkuk burst out into a peal of shrill 
downright laughter. The old man laughed until he 
held his sides. Stringer, turning white with rage, kept 
his clenched fists in his trousers for fear of being 
tempted to box the sexton’s ears. 

Nobody could have foretold what would be the result 
of this peculiar altercation. Suddenly the dense crowd 
surrounding the two combatants swayed hither and 
thither, and heads and arms bobbed right and left as if 
in the effort to afford a passage for some one who was 
approaching from behind. Over and above the hulla- 
baloo of discordant and angry exclamations could be 
heard the Squire’s strident voice shouting, — 

“What’s the matter here? What are you up to? 
Let me see what’s going on.” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


243 


The crowd respectfully made way, and a moment 
afterwards Marmaduke Boyer, his friend, and Frank 
stood within the semi-circle of excited faces. 

“ I thought so! ” roared the Squire. u You’re having 
another quarrel in a public place, Stringer. When will 
you learn sense and discretion?” 

The indignation which had been previously assumed 
by Mr. Stringer now became real. Insulted, as he 
thought himself, by the Squire, before a whole crowd 
of the parishioners, he came to the conclusion that 
dignity was the proper means of guarding his reputa- 
tion. He fixed his hat upon his head with a vicious 
grip. 

“ Marmaduke Boyer,” he said quietly and doggedly, 
“you’ve told me before all these people that I haven’t 
got any sense and any discretion. That’s a hard speech 
for you to mek to me, Squire though you be ; but I 
hope as I’m a Christian, and this is the Lord’s Day. 
So I forgive you, and good-morning to you.” 

There was something of a quaint Ironside dignity 
about him as he glanced right and left, and made his 
way through the people, who opened out to let him 
pass. He had not gone many steps before he turned 
and waited for the Squire, who was moving in the same 
direction. 

“ Squire Boyer,” he said, “ you’re a magistrate ; I’m 
going to fetch a lawyer from Birmingham as soon as 
ever a train goes to-morrow morning, and as I’ve got a 
serious charge to make against Dr. Hay I hope as you’ll 
be at home to hear it.” With that he paced away, 
leaving the gentlemen nonplussed and speechless. 

He walked away so fast that when he reached his 
own door great drops of perspiration stood on his fore- 


244 


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head. The midday meal was laid out as usual in the 
trim and clean kitchen, and a tidy elderly woman was 
busy placing on a dish a big, well-cooked joint of roast 
beef. A jug of foaming, purling home-brewed ale stood 
next to Stringer’s plate on the table. 

He sat down without taking off his hat, and looked 
away moodily and gloomily. The drinking-glass* in 
front of him bore an engraved inscription which fasci- 
nated him. It read : “ To Mary, on her thirteenth 
birthday.” Her mother — his loving, dutiful wife, the 
companion of so many years — had given it to the child 
without whose comforting presence he passed his first 
Sunday. As though Fate had decreed it to try his 
temper, his eye fell upon a big wooden spoon, upon the 
handle of which the letters I. S. were rudely engraved. 
He remembered — and it hurt him to remember — that 
Joseph had carved out that spoon, and had given it to 
him as a boyish birthday present some time about ten 
years ago. 

The woman placed the steaming joint in front of him. 
Seeing that he did not move, she changed the position 
of the carving-knife and fork. 

Something was evidently wrong with master, but she 
dared not address him — not just then. She waited 
silently for a minute or two, and then again shifted the 
knife and fork, and the latter fell with a slight clatter 
from the dish on to the table. 

“ What a row you’re makin’, Susan,” Stringer said in 
petty annoyance. 

“ Dinner’s quite ready, master,” the woman answered. 

“ I don’t want any dinner,” the churchwarden 
exclaimed in a choking voice. “ Tek it away ! Tek 
it away and eat it yourself.” 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


245 


He rose tremblingly. His legs seemed to fail him in 
the effort. For full two hours afterwards the house- 
keeper, puzzled beyond measure by her master’s conduct, 
could hear him walking up and down in his bedroom 
upstairs like a caged tiger. 


246 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

The unlucky Jonah had been kept in the village 
lock-up in defiance of all the principles of Magna 
Charta. No statute of the commonwealth defines 
setting fire even to a church by accident as an indictable 
offence, and Jonah had to be allowed to depart, to the 
great regret of the village constable, who had found 
Master Jonah much more agreeable company than he 
had imagined, and who — I record it with regret — had 
passed hours upon hours in playing “snip” with him, 
relieving the luckless one of all his remaining cash, 
consisting of the sum of one and fourpence halfpenny. 

Jonah was shuffling down the village street, his big 
hobnailed shoes clattering over the rough stones, when 
he came across his father, who received him in a far 
from friendly manner. 

“ They’ve let thee out, then, have they, thee villain 
of unrighteousness ? They’ve let thee out, and thee’ll 
be up to further mischief. Cum home, and hide that 
ugly face o’ thine ! ” 

“It ain’t my fault if I am ugly,” Jonah replied 
surlily; “it’s yours and mother’s.” 

For all reply the old man took him by the scruff of 
the neck and pushed him along the road. 

“Go!” he said. “Wait till thee get’st home, and 
I’ll teach thee to reply to thy betters.” 

Now, in comparison with Jonah, Habakkuk was a 
shrimp of a man, and the hulking lad accepted his 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


247 


father’s assaults much in the spirit of that brewer’s 
drayman who, when asked why he allowed his wife to 
beat him, replied, “It amuses she, and it doesn’t hurt 
I.” It gratified Habakkuk to imagine that he was able 
to wreak summary vengeance upon his overgrown son, 
and as he never succeeded in making the slightest im- 
pression upon Jonah’s leathery epidermis, the lanky one 
could well afford to let the old man thus assert his 
parental authority. 

Habakkuk lived in a little cottage of his own at the 
far end of the village, within a very short distance of 
the Rectory. It was a cleanly place, with yellow dis- 
tempered walls, and with its whitewashed kitchen, a 
perfect pattern of pristine neatness. The old man did 
all the work of the house himself, and asked but little 
assistance from his lazy son. There was a little vege- 
table garden at the back — a mere patch — but the 
fence at the other end of it ran right up to the Rectory 
grounds. 

Father and son were seated in the kitchen over a 
small roast leg of mutton, the Sunday dinner being the 
one weekly meal when the sexton allowed himself a fare 
of hot roast meat. Jonah had bolted the slice which 
his father had placed before him, as a bull terrier would 
have done, and was looking with greedy eyes, first at 
his father, and then at the remainder of the joint. 
While so engaged his glance travelled all over the room, 
and peered out of the window into the garden beyond. 
In this wise he saw no less, a person than Miss Ophelia, 
who was standing in the Rectory grounds on the other 
side of the fence, and calling out to Habakkuk. 

The sexton shuffled out towards her swiftly, bowing 
repeatedly as he came nearer to her. 


248 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


Ophelia was standing on the lower bar of the fence, 
with her arms resting on the top. 

“ Mrs. Hay is displeased with you, Habakkuk,” she 
said. 

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” the old man replied; “you 
don’t mean to say so ! I'm so sorry. What have I 
been an’ done? I’ll never do it again, that I won’t. 
Mrs. Hay displeased ! I’m that sorry, that I am ? 
What’s she displeased about ? ” 

“ You did not keep a seat for Mr. Stringer,” said 
Ophelia. 

The sexton bridled up unconsciously. 

“ Why should I keep a seat for him ? ” he asked, 
“ Who’s he, as ordinary Christians ain’t good enough to 
sit alongside o’ he? A mean, sneaking son o’ Jezebel, 
as is the cause of all the mischief in this parish, and of 
all the trouble what’s got into it. - And with your good 
leave, Miss Ophelia, 1*11 say it, what oughtn’t, Mrs. Hay 
was much too good when she made room for him.” 

“ He had to sit somewhere, and there was not a seat 
anywhere else,” Ophelia remonstrated. 

“Let him stand! He’s big enough and vicious 
enough,” Habakkuk exclaimed. 

“ You must allow us to have our own way,” Ophelia 
retorted ; “ and Mrs. Hay desires that you will in the 
future always provide a fitting place for Mr. Stringer.” 

“ Oh, I’d provide a fittin’ place for Mr. Stringer,” the 
old man snarled. “ Ashton Jail is a fittin’ place for 
him. That’s wheer he’d go if I had my way.” 

“You must not talk like that,” Ophelia remonstrated. 
“We all have unpleasant duties to do now and then, 
and you must do yours, or Mrs. Hay will be very much 
annoyed.” 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


249 


With that she skipped away, leaving Habakkuk in a 
state of irritation at the order which had been conveyed 
to him. 

The parish of Thorbury had before that day been di- 
vided into two sections by the controversy between the 
Rector and the churchwardens, but now it was in a 
state of open seething feud. At every dinner-table in 
the village Stringer’s publicly proclaimed intention to 
prosecute the Rector was discussed. It must be ad- 
mitted that even the churchwarden’s most avowed par- 
tisans felt misgivings of the justice of their case in 
attacking the Rector on the ground of his honesty. 
Such is the perversity of human nature, however, that 
men — right-thinking Christian men — so far threw 
dust into their own eyes as to assert that the Rector 
was guilty, and that Mr. Stringer, in spite of Dr. Hay’s 
pitiable condition, was only doing his duty in submit- 
ting the affair to a legal decision. In a place where 
everybody knew everybody else, and had known every- 
body else ever since they had been born ; where every- 
body had grown up in sight of everybody else, and where, 
therefore, figuratively speaking, the houses had glass 
fronts, such a spirit of dissension acted most un whole- 
somely upon the community. Men who had been 
friends for years became estranged from one another. 
People who had been comrades at school shrugged 
their shoulders as they passed each other, and it was a 
bitter fact that the most peaceably disposed of men, 
the most law-abiding, and the most gentle, had an un- 
willing share in creating this soreness of heart. 

Nobody felt this state of things more keenly and more 
irritatingly than the Squire. That the village of which 
he was lord should thus declare itself in open faction 


250 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


feud, like the Montagues and Capulets of yore, without 
asking his opinion, was bitter enough. An accusing 
voice told him that he himself had, in a measure, coun- 
tenanced the quarrel by the position he had taken up 
regarding the Rector. But then Marmaduke Boyer was 
a gentleman, and to his gentlemanly perception the 
charge of dishonesty against the Rector was naturally 
simply absurd and silly. 

Squire Boyer that afternoon, in spite of some un- 
toward circumstances, was a happy man. He had 
shaken hands with his boy, and his boy was with him 
again. When the pair had reached home, and Frank 
had entered his usual bedroom, the Squire followed him 
thither. He walked up to the young man, and placing 
one hand on his shoulder, and grasping his son’s hand 
with the other, he had looked the latter straight in the 
face and had said : 

“ Frank, I’m sorry.” 

“ Don’t say another word, dad,” young Boyer had re- 
plied, and the two had shaken hands like old friends. 
But there was just that little lump in each throat, and 
that little hesitation of the voice, which showed that 
they felt what they did not express. 

The Squire was standing with his hands behind his 
back against the vacant chimney-piece of the big library, 
and Frank was seated in a large old-fashioned armchair 
a few paces from him. They were both sipping their 
madeira after luncheon, and the blue clnuds of cigar- 
smoke curled in the air. 

“Well, lad,” the Squire exclaimed, “I suppose you 
are going to marry Ophelia.” 

“ I will, with your permission, dad,” Frank replied. 

“ I suppose you know what you’re doing,” Boyer con- 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


251 


tinued ; “ and when it’s once done yon can’t undo it 
easily, but you can regret it soon enough.” 

“ She is the best girl in the wide, wide world,” young 
Boyer asserted with determination ; “ and the man who 
cannot be happy with her never will be.” 

“ I have heard something like that before, my boy,” 
the fox-colored one retorted. “ I only hope it will turn 
out as you think. Here’s my hand upon it.” 

The final seal was thus set upon the Squire’s reconcil- 
iation with the Rector. News spreads quickly in a place 
like Thorbury, and Mr. Stringer, who had laid down to 
sleep after his perambulations up and down his bed- 
chamber, and who had, on awakening, sauntered out into 
the street, was speedily told that the Squire had thrown 
the weight of his influence in the scale against him. 

“ Very well,” he replied. “ I just sha’n’t apply to him 
for the summons, that’s all. I’ll go to Sir Frederick.” 

Sir Frederick Halstead was the elderly gentleman and 
neighbor of Boyer’s who had joined the latter at the 
morning’s service. 

Many things combined to irritate and try Mr. String- 
er’s temper that afternoon. Men in whose judgment 
he was wont to place confidence told him he was wrong 
in so obstinately and uncharitably attacking a man who 
was stretched upon a bed of pain. Others asserted that 
he was making a fool of himself. Still others doubted 
his soundness of judgment, and the opinions of the few 
who coincided with him were mere drops in the flood of 
disapproval which came upon him with torrent velocity. 

We have it on record that men who were awaiting 
their doom at the lions’ teeth begged to be removed from 
a place where the flies annoyed them. Stringer, in the 
midst of the excitement to which he was exposed, was 


252 


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in a dreadful state of suspense to know how he would 
be treated during the evening service. He went early, 
determined, if no seat were reserved for him, to plant 
himself firmly on the form reserved for the Rector’s 
family. He had gone to the temporary church expect- 
ing to he irritated, and he was irritated grievously 
because he was not irritated as he expected. Habakkuk 
met him with ludicrous deference, and conducted him 
to the bench immediately behind the Squire’s. There 
was no help for it — he had to be satisfied ; and if ever 
a man was unhappy at having obtained what he asked 
for, that man was Mr. Stringer. He would have so en- 
joyed having to find his seat by an exhibition of author- 
ity, and he was wofully disappointed that no actual 
cause of quarrel was left to him for the moment. 

When the evening service was over, the churchwarden 
returned to his house sore at heart. He went to bed 
supperless, and without his customary toddy. He 
passed a miserable night, tossing and rolling about his 
bed, now too hot, then too cold, never comfortable. 
The flock pillow which he had used for about twenty 
years had suddenly become lumpy, and he felt sure it 
was the fault of that old woman, who could not arrange 
it as well as Mary used to do. What a bother it was 
that Mary was gone ! He was perfectly sick and tired 
of himself ; everything seemed to go wrong. Who 
could have put it into Habakkuk’s head to provide that 
seat for him during the evening service? Habakkuk 
would never have done it of his own accord. That was 
just another of the Rector’s spiteful tricks, he felt sure. 
By such underhand practices he was continually trying 
to proclaim himself the peacemaker of the parish. 
Self-communion did not act as a somnolent factor 


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253 


with Mr. Stringer. He saw the moon grow fainter and 
fainter, and the sky grow lighter and lighter, and the 
early blush of dawn found him as wide awake as ever. 
When the advent of the king of day proclaimed itself 
in a broad streak of red and gold on the eastern horizon, 
Mr. Stringer still tossed about his bed unrefreshed. 

The old housekeeper had been moving about for half 
an hour past, and Stringer, dressing himself rapidly, 
after escaping various accidents during the process of 
shaving, went downstairs in a hideous temper. It was 
lucky for the old woman, and most irritating again for 
Stringer, that he could find absolutely nothing to grumble 
about. Contrary to his custom, he went straight into the 
breakfast-room — he who always took his morning tea 
in the kitchen. But the place was swept and tidy, and 
the tray with his tea and toast was brought to him in 
a jiffy. 

He had eaten no dinner on the previous day nor 
tasted supper, and his customary robust appetite asserted 
itself in spite of him. Here again the man’s dogged 
character showed itself. He was hungry, very hungry, 
but he did not want it said in the village that he was a 
glutton, or set an example to improvidence by allowing 
himself aught but tea and toast for breakfast. The 
huge cold joint stood on the sideboard, and he could 
have easily helped himself ; but no — he had been sat- 
isfied with tea and toast these many years past, and tea 
and toast would have to suffice him that day. And 
more than that, it was his own fault if he had gone to 
bed hungry the day before, and this morning he would 
only allow himself the usual quantity. There was no 
trace of meanness or stinginess in this course of action ; 
it was simply part and parcel of the man’s character. 


254 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


He was as obstinate with himself as he was with 
others. 

He took the morning train, and arrived in Birming- 
ham long before any lawyer’s office was open. He first 
of all wandered about the streets disconsolately, then 
went into the smoking-room of the Stork Hotel, and sat 
himself down in a round wooden armchair in the corner. 
He had never found the morning papers so dull. His 
party, the Tories, were going to the dogs — of that he 
felt certain. They had not offered half enough serious 
opposition to the ridiculous innovations of the Aberdeen 
Government. What were such men as Lord Derby, 
Mr. Disraeli, and Lord St. Leonards about, to allow 
Lord Palmerston and Lord John Russell to ride rough- 
shod over them ? He was weary of it — he was weary 
of everything. 

The clock struck nine as he entered his lawyer’s 
office in Temple Row. He was always in litigation with 
somebody or other. When he was not suing somebody 
else, somebody else was sure to be suing him. He 
therefore was a most valuable client, and the clerks 
received him with deference. Mr. Underwood had not 
yet arrived, but he would not be long. Would Mr. 
Stringer wait in his room? Mr. Stringer expressed his 
willingness to wait in Mr. Underwood’s room, but was 
exceedingly annoyed at having to wait. The chapter 
of inconveniences and annoyances was evidently intent 
on continuing. 

Mr. Stringer had read the names on all the tin cases 
which half filled one side of the room. He had made 
himself acquainted with the endorsements on all the 
legal papers which were packed on the huge table. He 
had examined every auctioneer’s bill on the walls, and 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


255 


had found them uninteresting. Downright impatience 
was beginning to assert itself, when the door opened 
and Mr. Underwood entered, bustling and smiling, and 
greeted his client with a cheery welcome. He was a 
tall thin man, with a smoothly shaven face, and a nearly 
perfectly bald head. His piercing gray eyes were always 
on the move, and a perpetual smile sat on his otherwise 
sphinx-like face. A clerk followed him with an armful of 
deeds and documents, which he placed on his employer’s 
table, where a little pile of letters was already lying. 

“I won’t keep you a moment, Mr. Stringer,” the 
lawyer said, glancing over the addresses. “ There is 
just one here which I may have to answer on the spot.” 

Mr. Stringer turned his eyes up to the ceiling while 
his legal adviser perused the letter, scribbled a few 
words on it, and handed it to his clerk. The latter 
bowed stiffly and went out. 

“Now I’m at your service, my dear Mr. Stringer,” 
the lawyer exclaimed cheerily. “ What have we on this 
time ? ” 

The churchwarden set to work, and stated his case 
with such directness and lucidity as he was capable of. 
The solicitor, accustomed to his client’s style and 
descriptions, saw through the whole matter immediately. 

“ I’m afraid you are overstepping the mark, Mr. 
Stringer, when you speak of a criminal prosecution,” 
he said, stroking his chin. “Dr. Hay is undoubtedly 
responsible to the parish for the value of the book which 
has been taken away, and the Court would give judg- 
ment in favor of the parishioners. What the amount of 
the judgment would be depends upon the estimate of 
the jury. But there is no magistrate in England who, 
under the circumstances you have stated, would issue a 
criminal summons against Dr. Hay.” 


256 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“And why not?” exclaimed Mr. Stringer. “Will 
you tell me how that ode Bible can have been exchanged 
and the Hector not be a party to it? ” 

“ Mr. Stringer ! Mr. Stringer ! I’m ashamed of you,” 
Mr. Underwood replied quietly. “You, a man of 
discernment, such as I have always found you ! It is 
to my pecuniary interest that you should be engaged in 
litigation, criminal or civil ; but I am not going to allow 
you to fling your money into the gutter.” 

“ And if I do want to fling my money into the gutter, 
that don’t concern anybody but me, does it ? ” Mr. 
Stringer cried in annoyance. 

“My dear Mr. Stringer, you must really listen to 
reason,” the lawyer replied stolidly. “ You yourself 
told me just now that two men had been engaged at the 
Rectory restoring the old Bible. The case is as clear 
as daylight, and any magistrate would see it in the 
same way as I do. Dr. Hay’s well-known, high, and 
blameless character, his whole life, which lies like an 
open book before the world, would make a charge such 
as you would prefer against him preposterous, even if 
the circumstances of the case did not themselves afford 
an easy solution. The two men whom Dr. Hay 
employed are evidently the guilty parties, and Dr. Hay 
is as much a victim as the parish. I will place the 
matter in the hands of the police, if you like — that is 
quite another affair — and I will issue a writ against 
Dr. Hay if the parish authorities require me to do so. 
But beyond that I should not advise you to go.” 

Stringer had been in anything but an agreeable 
temper when he left his home that morning, but com- 
pared to him when he returned to it the proverbial bear 
with the proverbial sore head was a mild, meek, loving, 
and lovable creature. 


THE BISHOPS* BIBLE. 


257 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The green of the early autumn foliage had given 
way to russets and yellows, and the leaves were scat- 
tered far and wide on the country roads. A mild 
November heralded the beginning of winter with soft 
gray skies and pearly morning mists. 

The village of Thorbury was still as divided as ever. 
Mr. Stringer had bowed to the inevitable, and had 
contented himself by charging the Rector with gross 
recklessness in the care of the Church’s property. 

The latter, barely recovered from his hurts, and with 
the light .of his eyes forever gone, had not yet stirred 
beyond the Rectory gates. 

Thorbury Church was not destined to remain long a 
prey to desolation. Subscriptions had flowed in right 
and left, and workmen were busier than ever in roofing 
in and restoring the ancient walls, and in refitting the 
house of God. Before winter would have sent its first 
snows, it was to be inaugurated in solemn service held 
by the Rector himself. 

During all this while Mr. Stringer had been decidedly 
unhappy. Some of his own partisans were tiring and 
becoming lukewarm, but with every individual defection 
the remainder seemed to become more bitter. The 
Stringer faction, aping the manner of their chief, 
assumed airs of injured forbearance, but took practical 
means of showing the spirit of animosity which actuated 
them. The corn-chandler, for instance, was one of the 


258 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


Rector’s strong partisans, and the Stringerites who had 
previously dealt with him now went to Heydon Hay 
or Castle Barfield for their supply. There was a little 
local brewery, famous for miles round for the excellence 
of its ale. The Stringerites favored their idiosyncrasies 
and punished their stomachs by sending to Castle 
Barfield for small beer, which cost them quite as much 
as the local renowned beverage. Those who imagine 
that “ boycotting ” took its origin in Ireland are mis- 
taken. In many an English village have occurred 
incidents similar to those just recited as far back as 
men can remember. It was a very mild form of 
boycotting, it is true, but its moral purpose was the 
same. In a small place like Thorbury a man’s . business 
is easily ruined, and the persons who favored Mr. 
Stringer’s opponents suffered severely. There were no 
customers for them outside of the village. They had at 
all times quite enough to do to keep the wolf from the 
door, and with one-half of their usual patronage with- 
drawn, some of them were in a sad plight indeed. 

It was small consolation to Mr. Stringer to see some 
of his opponents suffer in this wise. He would have 
given one-half of all he possessed to have had his own 
way in his quarrel with the Rector. 

He had received a letter from Mary informing him 
that she was living with Mrs. Noble, but not aline since 
then. He had learned from the newspapers that his son 
was, after all, not called upon to go to the Crimea, and 
knowing that both Mary and Joseph were in London, 
living in near vicinity to one another, he had got it into 
his head that they were conspiring against him. Had 
he been asked why he entertained that opinion, he could 
not have given a satisfactory answer. After a while he 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


259 


came to lay the blame of Mary’s flight on Joseph’s 
shoulders. His example had led her away. He could 
have done without his son forever, but Mary was a sad 
loss to him. 

He had kept his girl’s letter in his pocket, and night 
after night he would pull it out and turn over its crum- 
pled leaves, trying to gather new information from its 
short and pithy wording. It naturally always told the 
same tale. 


Dear Father, — I am living with Mrs. Noble, and am very 
comfortable. Joseph comes to see me now and then. I have not 
yet found a place, but hope to get one soon. I hope you are well. 

Your affectionate daughter, 

Mart. 

Somehow or other it did not seem to him quite like 
Mary, that letter. He was not a connoisseur of style, 
but Mary’s particular charm of letter- writing was not 
there. It seemed to him brusque, not at all gentle and 
loving, as Mary’s letters had been when she had previ- 
ously been away from home on short visits — nothing 
like as filial even as that letter which he had found on 
the table on the morning when she left his house. 
Somebody was advising her, and advising her against 
him; but they might advise her all their lives, and all 
her life, and he would not stir a finger, not he. But it 
was a shame — a cruel, burning, infamous shame — that 
people should be found to make mischief between a 
father and his daughter. She could not possibly be as 
comfortable at Mrs. Noble’s as she had been at home, 
and he felt sure she would have returned long ago if 
somebody had not advised her against that course. In 
his mind he charged both Mrs. Noble and Joseph with 


260 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


haying given that guilty advice, and was equally in- 
censed against both. 

But, after all, as he thought the matter over carefully, 
the primary cause of Mary’s running away, as of all the 
other ills and annoyances which had befallen him, was 
the Rector. The reader may well open his eyes wide in 
expectation of learning by what course of reasoning Mr. 
Stringer arrived at that amazing conclusion. To Mr. 
Stringer, however, the question presented no difficulty. 
Had Thorbury Church not been set on fire through the 
Rector’s reckless appointment of J onah as guardian, and 
had he — Stringer — not been put out of all patience by 
the Rector’s insulting concfuct at the fire, he would not 
have been in such a vile temper with Mary, he would 
most probably not have threatened her as he did, and 
Mary would not have run away. Therefore it was plain 
as daylight to Mr. Stringer that Dr. Hay was response 
ble for Mary’s flight. He felt so much consolation in 
thus shifting from his own shoulders the reason why his 
daughter left her home that he inwardly digested it, and 
re-digested it, with intense satisfaction. It acted with 
twofold benevolence. It eased his mind as regarded 
himself, and added another point to the long list of the 
Rector’s offences. 

Stringer had heard that Dr. Hay had lost his eyesight. 
The recital of this grievous affliction made no impres- 
sion whatever on the churchwarden. He was not a cruel 
man, but, to start with, he did not quite understand what 
blindness meant, and then his general bitterness against 
the Rector hid from him the fact that he was unchari- 
table even in this matter. 

He was walking towards Hey don Hay one afternoon, 
when, on passing the Rectory grounds, he saw, strolling 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


261 


towards the church, the Rector, with Ophelia on one 
side of him and Frank on the other. The first view he 
obtained of the little party was that of their backs, and 
he noticed nothing particular except that they seemed 
to be walking very slowly. He knew that Mrs. Hay 
was confined to her room unwell, and the spiteful thought 
suggested itself to him, “ He hasn’t got the whole family 
with him, that’s all.” At that moment he had forgotten 
everything he had heard about the Rector’s blindness. 

His curiosity, somehow or other, prompted him to 
walk on faster, so as to pass the little group, and he 
overtook them by the churchyard gate. Frank had his 
hand on the latch, and Dr. Hay was leaning on Ophelia’s 
arm. His tall form stooped more than ever, and his hair 
was quite white. 

Stringer saw that both Ophelia and Frank looked 
towards him, and that Frank then addressed the Doctor. 
After that came a moment of such awe to the church- 
warden that he never forgot it. The Rector raised his 
head, and Stringer, for the first time, saw his closed eyes. 
There was something so indescribably pitiful, so majes- 
tic, in that blind face, that Stringer felt smitten to the 
heart, and walked away as fast as he could in red shame. 

He reached the sign-post, a quarter of a mile from the 
church, without knowing how he got there. Then, little 
by little, his equanimity returned, and he felt wroth with 
himself for having allowed himself to be thus upset. 
Those closed eyes haunted him, and he hated the Rector 
for haunting him with his closed eyes. 

As he lay awake on the following night an awful 
thought struck him like a sledge-hammer, and left him 
dazed. Why, he himself was the cause of the Rector’s 
walking into the fire. He writhed under it for a moment, 


262 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


like a tortured wretch upon an Inquisition rack. Great 
cold drops stood upon his forehead, and he sat upright 
in his bed as if ghosts affrighted him. The moment 
afterwards he laughed at himself for a fool and an idiot. 
Why should he blame himself ? What had he to blame 
himself for ? He had done his duty, and nothing but 
his duty. He put his hand upon his heart and assured 
himself that he was not only utterly blameless, but de- 
serving of high commendation in having acted as he 
did. The shock of the afternoon, the excitement, first 
of the self-accusation, then of the self-exculpation, wore 
him out physically and mentally, and brought to him the 
sound sleep which had long been a stranger to his couch. 

During the few days that followed Stringer purposely 
hovered repeatedly about the works in progress at the 
church in the hope of meeting the Rector. He had 
made up his mind not to be again frightened by that 
blind face, and he wanted to become accustomed to it. 
He was, however, doomed to disappointment. 

The weather became chiller and bleaker, and No- 
vember, that had come in like a lamb, went out like a 
lion. Mr. Stringer still paid daily repeated visits to the 
works of the now nearly completed church, without, 
however, once coming across Dr. Hay. He would 
potter about the churchyard and the church and the 
vestry for hours, busying himself about this, question- 
ing about that, standing in draughty places. He saw a 
good deal of the Squire, of Frank, of Ophelia, and of 
Mrs. Hay, also of Saint Sauveur, and a great deal more 
than he cared for of Habakkuk and Jonah ; but his 
eyes lighted not once on Dr. Hay. He would have 
dearly liked to have questioned some of the ladies and 
gentlemen just named about this peculiar and, to his 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


263 


mind, studied absence, but naturally dared not. Had 
he cared to inquire of those who were well informed on 
the subject, he' would have learned that the noise of 
the men at work irritated the Rector’s nerves. He 
would have been told further that, as daylight or night 
made no difference to the afflicted minister, Dr. Hay 
usually went to the church when everybody had left it. 
There he prepared himself for the continuance of his 
ministry by accustoming himself to move about the 
place without assistance. 

In the first week of December a howling, biting, 
early winter blast made Thorbury Church a perfect ice- 
house. All the workmen were sneezing and coughing, 
and Mr. Stringer, who stuck to the place with that bull- 
dog tenacity which characterized him in everything, 
sneezed and coughed also. His back began to ache, 
and he felt dull pains in his limbs. He was not to be 
put off his task so easily, however. He took a double 
glass of toddy before going to bed, to drive away his 
cold, and woke to find that he was not in any way re- 
lieved of it. The next day he was worse, but Thorbury 
Church still claimed his presence for hours. The 
weather was vile ; the winter, which had begun mildly, 
had set in with dire fierceness, and it was snowing, rain- 
ing, freezing, and thawing in turns. These inclemen- 
cies of the elements, with the addition of a stifling fog, 
were not conducive to Mr. Stringer’s recovery, espe- 
cially as he would persist in haunting a building which 
was as yet insufficiently fitted with doors and windows. 

Again he tried the whiskey cure before retiring to 
rest, and not only found it once more a failure, but also 
productive of an abominable headache. Again he 
wrapped himself up in coats and mufflers, and again he 


264 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


walked to the parish church. Not so fast, though, as 
previously, nor with such determination or intensity of 
purpose as before. He felt lax, and anything but 
strong, but he would not acknowledge to anybody, least 
of all to himself, that he was ill. 

When he returned home of an evening he would rail 
against fate for having deprived him of Mary. Had 
Mary been with him he would not have been in this 
state. She would have known what was good for him. 
She would have tended him and nursed him, and he 
would have been well again long ago, and able to move 
about as was his wont. If the days were long and 
weary, the nights were longer and wearier. Few peo- 
ple ever visited him. He had many partisans, but he 
could count his friends on one hand and have fingers to 
spare. lie had discouraged even those who were his 
friends from calling. Thus it came that when illness 
made his already lonely home more unhomelike than 
ever, there was no hand except the old housekeeper’s to 
give him as much as a glass of water. 

The restoration of the church was so far advanced 
that its re-opening on Christmas Eve was publicly an- 
nounced. A polite note, informing him that such was 
the Rector’s intention, had been sent to his house. He 
read the letter during his breakfast, and again wandered 
out for his customary visit to the church ; but he never 
got as far as that. All along the road he felt himself 
growing weaker and weaker, and uncomfortable chills 
had crept over him. When he reached the Fox and 
Dogs he was glad to allow himself to be led into the 
parlor, and to sit down before the roaring fire. He 
hated doctors, and would never call one to himself or 
his, except in the direst extremity. The innkeeper, 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


265 


however, sent for the village physician, whether Stringer 
liked it or not, and the churchwarden was packed off to 
his house in a close carriage, and deposited in his bed by 
the landlord and his ostler. Strict orders were given to 
the housekeeper that she was not to allow her master 
downstairs on any pretence. The amazement and dis- 
tress of the poor creature, on hearing this injunction, 
may be easily imagined. She was at a loss .to know 
how she, who was frightened out of her life at the very 
sight of her master, was to prevent him from doing 
exactly what he wanted. 

The few days that followed were passed by Stringer 
in a state of high fever. His old housekeeper sat up 
with him, and nursed him day and night, but he missed 
Mary so much. The old woman was well enough in 
her way, and she meant kindly, but she was clumsy, 
and irritated him over and over again, and she knew 
nothing, and could give no information about men and 
things. 

After one long miserable night of fever and pain, he 
would have had it in his heart to write to Mary, begging 
her to return, but on trying a pen he felt that he could not 
guide it. He might have confessed his weakness to his 
child, and have asked her — he and she the only wit- 
nesses of his humiliation — to come and again cheer his 
house with the sunshine of her presence. But he was 
still too proud — why would he not confess to himself 
that he was too obstinate ? — to admit strangers to a 
share in such a secret. The letter, therefore, remained 
unwritten, and as stout a heart as ever beat in English 
yeoman’s breast was nigh on breaking, simply because 
it was made of too unyielding a fibre. 

The days passed, and Stringer recovered slowly. 


266 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


Tlie weather was still bitter. Snow on the ground as 
far as the eye could reach, snow whirling in the air, all 
the landscape swathed in a white pall. They allowed 
him to sit up in an armchair in his bedroom of a 
daytime, but even if they had permitted him to go 
out he had not the strength of body nor of will to 
desire it. 

A few of his stanchest partisans paid him formal 
visits. Each call left an added taste of bitterness. He 
was told that the Rector was walking about the village 
as if he were still possessed of the sight of his eyes — 
that through the Squire’s influence, and by Dr. Hay’s 
persuasive and seemingly ubiquitous presence, the vil- 
lage of Thorbury was rallying itself on the Rector’s 
side — that his own party was dwindling to a mere 
handful, and that, in fact, since he had been unable 
to leave his house, his cause and his party in the parish 
had gone thoroughly to the bad. 

Christmas Eve came, and Stringer was still confined 
to his room. He felt himself utterly helpless. A friend 
called in the afternoon and told him of the ready prep- 
arations for the inaugural service of the evening. When 
the door had closed again behind that man, Stringer 
rose from his armchair trembling and gasping for breath. 
He went to the window, and with quivering fingers 
pushed aside the little muslin curtains. A heavy snow- 
storm was abroad. He had barely strength to return 
to his chair. How was the mighty fallen ! 

The evening came, and Stringer listened with aching 
ear for the first chime of the new bells. When at last 
they pealed out into the night their message of glory 
to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will 
towards men, the pent-up agony in Stringer’s heart 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


267 


burst its confines, and the Midland bulldog, alone and 
ill, without child or friend to speak a word of cheer to 
him on this eve of the day of all men’s joy, sat down in 
his chair with the first tears he had known since childhood 
running down his face. 


268 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


CHAPTER XXV. 

They said in the village, that night of Christmas 
Eve, that within the memory of the oldest inhabitant 
there had not been such a heart-touching solemnity in 
Thorbury Church. The Lord’s blind servant recited 
the Lord’s words, and in his Master’s name blessed the 
whole congregation. Men and women felt struck with 
awe on beholding those sightless eyes turned towards 
them in exhortation and prayer. The Rector’s delivery 
had always been impressive, but that evening it had 
been majestic. He had moved about the church as if 
guided by a hand from above, and the superstitious 
country folk saw in Dr. Hay’s unaided service something 
wondrous indeed. 

Had any stranger penetrated within the walls of the 
Rectory, he would never have dreamed that a sore 
affliction had befallen its master. The place was bright 
and happy. The Squire was there in his jolliest of 
tempers, and Frank, glowing with ecstasy at being so 
near Ophelia — a feeling which the young lady returned 
with interest. There was Mrs. Hay — of course, her face 
a little pale still, but content to see her husband restored 
to strength, if not to sight, and happy that the young 
folk were so happy. And then there was the Rector, 
with his unbreakable good humor, insisting on walking 
about without help, full of anecdote, smiling as if naught 
had befallen him, with a good word for all men, and a 
kindly one even for Stringer. It was a Christmas-Eve 


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gathering of the cheery, homely sort, where men’s vir- 
tues were remembered, and their shortcomings were cast 
into the snow that covered the ground. 

They had of course heard that Stringer was very ill, 
and Dr. Hay would have dearly liked to visit him. In 
the simplicity of his great heart, he had no misgivings 
whatever about the reception which would await him, 
and he was with difficulty persuaded to abandon his 
project, accepting as a compromise that the Squire should 
first put his head into the lion’s den, and call upon the 
sick and irreconcilable" churchwarden. 

Christmas Day came, bright, fine, crisp, and glorious. 
The snow glittered upon ground, roof, and tree with 
millions upon millions of shiny white crystalline points. 
The sun, large and red, stood out behind a long streak 
of purple cloud on a horizon of the coldest, palest blue. 
On the frozen ditch alongside the high-road, between the 
village inn and the village church, the young popula- 
tion of Thorbury was sliding with keen enjoyment 
which even an occasional rough tumble could not 
mar. 

Mr. Stringer was a little better that morning — just 
so much better as to be endowed with the energy to 
grumble at and scold the poor old woman who nursed 
him. The latter had been making some mince-pies, 
which she fondly believed her master would be able to 
eat. She had presented one of them to Mr. Stringer, 
,and had been met with rebuke and reproach. There- 
upon she had fled from the churchwarden’s presence in 
fear and trembling, and the sick man, miserable at being 
left quite alone, would have called her back had he been 
able to speak loud enough to make himself heard, or 
had he been strong enough to walk downstairs unaided. 


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A bell, even for a sick-room, was not a contrivance 
known in Mr. Stringer’s house. 

To Isaac Stringer this glorious Chistmas Day was 
the blackest, the most miserable day he had ever known. 
Sore at heart, prostrated by bodily illness and mental 
disappointment, he felt ready to curse himself and 
others. 

He had ordered a big fire to be lighted in the parlor, 
and with Susan’s aid he descended thither laboriously, 
wrapped in a pair of voluminous blankets, and sat him- 
self down by the window, so that he might see the 
people who passed. 

The one street of Thorbury was at the best of times 
nearly deserted, and Stringer lived in that part of it which 
owned no traffic but that of its own locality. The road 
from the railway-station reached the street a good three 
or four minutes’ walk from Stringer’s house, and the 
avenue which led to Thorbury Chase turned off some 
distance further on. The end of the village street in 
which Mr. Stringer lived led only by an old circuitous 
and un frequently used country road to Castle Barfield, 
and had long been bereft of its traffic by the newer and 
much shorter turnpike. Few people wjio had not actual 
business there ever came to Mr. Stringer’s part of the 
village. Passers were, therefore, few and far between, 
even on ordinary occasions. 

As Mr. Stringer sat and looked out of his window, 
he vowed that he had never seen the place so deserted 
on a Christmas morning. Did nobody at all walk 
abroad in the village? Had nobody business in the 
street? Had everybody utterly forgotten him? Was 
nobody going to call on him ? Did anybody at all care 
whether he was alive or dead? The clock in its long 


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case in the corner of the room was ticking solemnly — 
tick, tick, tick, tick. It seemed to him, at last, as 
though that clock mocked him, and answered him — 
No, no, no, no. At other times that clock would have 
worried and fidgeted him frightfully, but the exertion 
of coming downstairs had sadly weakened him again, 
and he did not feel strong enough to be annoyed. 

On a sudden, bright, cheery voices fell on Isaac 
StringerV ear — a big, jolly, elderly voice, and a 
younger one ; and Stringer knew them both. They 
were the Squire’s and his son’s. But a moment or two 
afterwards, Marmaduke Boyer’s florid face and red hair 
and whiskers beamed in upon Mr. Stringer from the 
other side of his parlor window, and the churchwarden 
felt as though he could drop at the thought that they 
who had injured him so much were actually about to 
set foot in his house. But a few heart-beats elapsed 
between the time when he first caught sight of the 
Squire’s face and that when he heard the latch click 
under Boyer’s hand, but those few moments sufficed for 
him to pass in mental review all he had suffered, as he 
imagined, at the Rector’s hands, and to steel his poor 
shattered nerves, with such strength as was left to him, 
so as to receive with fitting dignity his enemy’s declared 
friends. 

The parlor door swung open, and Boyer and Frank 
stepped in. 

“Glad to see you up again, Stringer,” the Squire 
commenced cheerily. 

Stringer looked at him with open eyes, without mov- 
ing hand or foot. 

“Indeed?” he drawled slowly. 

“ Indeed I am,” Boyer rejoined, “ and so are all of us. 


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We heard all about your illness, and I thought I’d come 
here this morning, and see how you were, and wish you 
a merry Christmas.” 

“ That’s very kind of you, Squire,” Stringer replied, 
in a tone of voice so studiedly indifferent that it left 
his speech without point. 

Boyer noticed it, as he had previously noticed the 
man’s manner, but he was determined to humor him if 
such were possible. 

“We all wished,” continued jthe Squire, “that you 
could have been in the church last night. It was a 
beautiful service, and you would have been pleased 
with it, Stringer.” 

“Oh, I would ha’ been pleased? Would I?” Mr. 
Stringer snarled in reply. “Well, theer ain’t no 
knowin’ what might ha’ been. Pigs might fly — that’s 
an old say in’.” 

“ Come now, come,” the Squire replied, with a round 
laugh, “ we won’t have any more of this nonsense, and 
especially not at this jolly Christmas time.” 

“ Oh, of course,” Mr. Stringer retorted, “ it’s non- 
sense now. You’ve found that out just lately, Squire, 
since I’ve been ill abed, and hunable tp do my duty by 
my parish. It weren’t nonsense three months ago. 
And this Christmas time is so jolly, ain’t it, Squire ? ” 

“ My poor Stringer,” the Squire said gently, “ I don’t 
blame you for speaking as you do. You’re ill, and 
lonely, and miserable, and — ” 

“ And what’s that got to do with thee, Squire ? ” 
Stringer interrupted sternly. “ If I am ill, and lonely, 
and miserable, I’ve got just as much right to be ill, and 
lonely, and miserable as hanybody else. What’s it got 
to do with thee ? That don’t give you no right to come 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 273 

here and badger me. And what’s more, I won’t be 
badgered — I ain’t well enough to be badgered — ” 

“ My dear Stringer ! ” Marmaduke Boyer tried to say. 

“ Oh ! I know all you’re goin’ to say, Squire,” the 
irate one responded, “ and with your leave, I’ll tek it as 
spoke. It’s very good on you to come here and look 
up a poor man like me, but if you don’t mind I’d rather 
be left alone.” 

Boyer looked at the churchwarden with his great 
blue eyes twinkling in brimming good humor. 

“ Look here, Stringer,” he said. “ I am not going to 
allow you to bite off your nose to spite your face. 
You’re not getting better very fast, and” — here his 
eyes twinkled more than ever — “ the parish can’t get 
on without you, Stringer.” 

Stringer’s face at this statement was a study for a 
painter. It presented a mixture of injured innocence 
and outraged dignity. 

44 Do you think, Squire,” said Stringer, in a slow 
staccato, “ as it’s very neighborly and Christian-like on 
a Christmas Day, of all days in the year, to come here 
and make fun of a man wliat’s ill? ” 

With these words he turned his face away and looked 
out of window. Boyer stepped round to the other side, 
and, by doing so, compelled the obstinate one to look 
him in the face. 

“ Tell me, Stringer,” he said in a threatening quiet, % 
“ do you think me capable of coming here for the pur- 
pose of annoying you ? ” 

Mr. Stringer, placed between the Scylla of confessing 
himself in fault and the Charybdis of silence, chose the 
latter, and again turned his eyes out of window. 

“ You won’t reply ? ” Boyer asked in the same tone. 


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Stringer remained as motionless and as voiceless as 
before. 

“ Very well,” Marmaduke Boyer said, turning to- 
wards the door, “ it isn’t my fault if you insist upon 
quarrelling with me, as you quarrel with everybody. 
Goodness knows I came here with the best of intentions, 
but, man, you would make a saint swear.” 

Frank, who saw that his father was fast losing his 
temper, and who knew what sort of a scene that would 
lead to, took the Squire by the arm, and said : 

“ Come, let us go away. The man is ill and worried. 
He’s better by himself.” 

Boyer, for all reply, rammed his hat on to his head 
and went out. Frank followed him. 

Now, it may seem strange, but it is, nevertheless, a 
fact, that Mr. Stringer rejoiced greatly at the result of 
his interview with the Squire. Nothing so pleasant had 
occurred to him for a long time. He had lately got 
quite out of practice in bullying. Susan was a very 
poor subject, who gave him no chance. She would cry 
and walk away before he had half begun. But as he 
retraced, in his mind, his interview with Marmaduke 
Boyer, he awoke to a justifiable pride for having, after 
his own fashion, bullied and defeated no less a person 
than the Squire himself. In his weak bodily state he 
felt as happy as he knew how to be in assuring himself 
that he was the undoubted conqueror in that passage of 
arms. 

When his slender midday meal was brought he felt 
himself endowed with the first sign of an appetite he 
had known these weeks past, and actually ate the meat 
of half a wing of roast chicken. He had given the 
Squire more than he had bargained for. The Rector’s 


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275 


turn would come in due time. He would soon be better 
and able to be about again, and then the village of 
Thorbury would have to choose between maligned hon- 
esty and pretentious trickery. He felt so much better, 
even at that moment, that he had no misgiving about 
the result. 

He had his chair moved to the side of the glowing 
fire, and was half dozing, in tranquil recollection of the 
morning’s victory, when the lad who did service as 
village postman pushed open the door, and with a noisy 
“ A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Stringer,” brought 
him a letter. 

The boy stood waiting while Stringer turned the 
missive over and over again, examining the postmark 
— London — and the writing — Mary’s. 

“ And what might you be waitin’ for, young man?” 
he said at last, on looking up. 

“ A Christmas-box, if you please, Mr. Stringer,” the 
lad answered. 

If Stringer had been possessed of his usual strength 
and agility, unless both doors were open to permit of 
rapid flight, that boy would not have escaped punish- 
ment for his impertinent request. As it was, Stringer 
looked about him helplessly for some cheap, tough, and 
handy article with which to assault the lad. The latter 
understood the churchwarden’s intentions perfectly, and 
beat a hasty retreat. 

The letter lay a full quarter of an hour in Stringer’s 
lap before he opened it. It seemed to bring him closer 
to her, that letter, and yet he had an inward misgiving 
that it did not contain welcome news. Perhaps it was 
his own bodily condition ; perhaps it was the state of 
doubt by which he had been lately surrounded — he 


276 


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could not have told why ; but he was afraid to open 
that letter, lest it might convey to him aught about 
Mary that would grieve him. 

When the epistle at last lay open before him, he found 
that either his eyesight was not as good as of yore, or 
that the light in the room was execrably bad, and be- 
fore he was able to read it he was so shaken that he 
had to renew his effort twice or thrice before reaching 
the end. 

Mary’s handwriting seemed quite different from what 
he had been accustomed to. It seemed straighter, less 
rounded, more irregular, as if she had been writing 
under great nervous agitation. 

My dear Father, she wrote, I send you my very best 
wishes for this Christmas and New Year. I hope you do not miss 
me as much as I miss you, and that you are happier than I am. 
How awful about poor Joseph ! I have done all I can to help 
him. Of course he is quite innocent. God bless you, dear father, 
this Christmas-tide. 

Your affectionate daughter, 

Mary. 

What an inexplicable letter ! It was so altogether 
vague ; it seemed steeped in unhappiness. 

Mary was miserable ; something awful had happened 
to Joseph. He had been accused of something of which 
he was not guilty. What did it all mean? 

He would inquire, and that quickly too, and find out 
all about this. But how? He was unable to leave his 
chair without help. And this was his Christmas ! He 
so helpless here, and his child far away from him and 
unhappy. 

As he was pondering in his mind what to do in this 
emergency, his eyes fell upon a square-cut scrap of a 


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277 


newspaper, which had evidently been enclosed to him, 
and had fallen from Mary’s letter on to his lap. He had 
to turn it once or twice before he could find the right 
side, and his throat became parched and his pulse seemed 
to stand still while he read the following lines : 

Burglars’ Accomplices. — At the Rochester Row Police- 
court, Cornelius Badger, 24, commercial traveller, of 116 Broad 
Street, Chelsea, and Joseph Stringer, 21, a private in the Life 
Guards, were brought up by Detective Sergeant Humphry, 
charged with being in possession of a portion of the property 
stolen from Herndale House on the occasion of the recent bur- 
glary. Formal proof of their possession of the stolen articles 
was given, and the prisoners, through Mr. Andrews, their soli- 
citor, declared their innocence. Mr. Somers remanded the pris- 
oners for a week, in order to enable the police to make further 
inquiries. Bail was refused. 

Stringer read the extract word for word, and staggered 
under each word as under a blow. 

Great Heaven ! his own son charged with dire dishon- 
esty ! His honorable name threatened by a tarnish ! 
He, who had held his head so high ! Surely he had not 
deserved this. 

How was he to look his neighbors in the face again ? 

When the old woman came to him, about an hour 
afterwards, he was sitting there, still and stony, and al- 
lowed himself to be led upstairs like a child. 


278 


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CHAPTER XXVI. 

The back kitchen of the People’s Emporium in Marl- 
borough Road, Chelsea, was not of that spacious nor of 
that luxurious kind which would make it a desirable lo- 
cality for a Christmas gathering. Its furniture con- 
sisted of the usual dresser and set of shelves — not over- 
stocked just then even with kitchen utensils — the usual 
plain deal table, and half a dozen more or less broken 
and rickety Bristol chairs. A broken looking-glass, 
about twice the size of a man’s hand, was the only of- 
fering to female vanity the place afforded. The back 
door opened into a small paved yard, a great portion of 
which was occupied by an overstock ed dust-bin, and by 
a huge assortment of broken bottles, china, and glass- 
ware and other equally useless odds and ends. Across 
the dark and dirty brown of the bricks of the back wall 
the bare branches of a solitary plane shot up against a 
bit of murky sky, breaking the edge of a gloomy, equally 
dirty, four-story tenement. That tree looked so thor- 
oughly out of place where it stood that one might have 
fancied it to have been dropped there by mistake, and 
to have been forgotten there. The sparse fire in the 
kitchen grate was subjected to the double duty of warm- 
ing the room and of roasting a diminutive joint which 
dangled in front of it suspended from a hook in the 
chimney -board. 

On the other side of the back kitchen the Emporium 
itself was closely shuttered and barred, and yet Mrs. 


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279 


Noble might have left its doors wide open and very few 
people would have thought its contents worth stealing. 
The poor old woman had fallen upon evil times. The 
unfortunate endorsement of a bill, given gratuitously, 
and for the sole purpose of aiding a sick friend, had 
brought writ, judgment, execution, and seizure of goods 
upon her, and upon this day of Christmas she found her 
house encumbered, and by a legal fiction guarded, by a 
broker’s man, thrust upon her by her unsatisfied land- 
lord. 

The back kitchen of the Emporium was occupied at 
that moment by only one person, who busied himself in 
spinning and turning the small joint, so that each por- 
tion of it might benefit from the heat of the sparse fire. 
He was a small man, elderly, with a shock of coarse 
gray hair. His long upper lip made a feeble pretence 
of being shaven, and his gray mutton-chop whiskers 
drooped over upstanding collars of dubious white. His 
cheeks were baggy, and, like his bluish red nose, formed 
the subsoil of a crop of pimples. 

He shuffled about the room with slouching gait, his 
movements being impeded by the sole of one boot which 
had parted company from its upper. He searched a 
drawer in the kitchen dresser, and thence produced a 
clean table-cloth, which he spread over the kitchen table. 
Then he laid the table for three, with such humble uten- 
sils as were ready to his hand. Having completed his 
task, he placed one of the chairs before the fire with its 
back to the chimney, and sat himself down upon it cross- 
ways, resting his arms upon the top rail. He might have 
sat like that for a quarter of an hour, during which time 
he assiduously kept the small joint spinning, when he 
got tired of his position and walked about the place, 


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returning to the grate from time to time to give the 
joint a new start. Then he went to the back door, 
which he opened, and sniffed the brisk winter air. The 
operation seemed not to cheer him particularly, for he 
slammed the door in a hurry and resumed his tramp up 
and down. 

“ Well, well,” he grumbled to himself, “hit’s too bad. 
I wonder whether they hever his a-coming ’ome. They 
hain’t kept them at Clerkenwell, I s’pose. This ’ere 
jint ’ll be done to a cinder, and I ham that ’ungry — ” 

He picked a tiny morsel of the crisp brown skin off 
the joint, and bit and ate it, hot as it was, and then 
walked up and down again. 

Fully half an hour more elapsed before a faint double 
knock was heard at the outer shutters, and the little old 
man slouched to the door and opened it, admitting Mrs. 
Noble and Mary. 

They both walked straight into the back kitchen and 
sat themselves down. Mrs. Noble placed a small basket 
filled with various parcels, on the table. Mary was 
paler, but not less pretty, than she had been before. 
She sat there silently, with clasped hands and mutely 
appealing eyes. 

“ You hain’t got rid o’ them things ? ” said the man, 
pointing to the basket. 

“No, Mister Jones,” Mrs. Noble replied. “We’ve 
had all our long walk for nothin’. They wouldn’t let 
us see Joseph, and they wouldn’t let us leave nothing. 
We’ve got to go agin to-morrow mornin’, and it’s 
heart-breakin’, that’s what it is.” 

Mary put her handkerchief to her eyes and wiped 
away a silent tear. Mrs. Noble went to her and put her 
arms round her neck. 


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281 


“ Don’t go on, dearie,” she said softly. “ Don’t take 
on like that. Don’t cry no more. Joseph won’t have 
no difficulty to prove as he’s had no hand in it, and that 
filthy little snake of a Badger deserves all he’ll get, an’ 
more.” 

“ You mustn’t say that, Grannie Noble,” Mary replied, 
turning her face up towards the old woman and kissing 
her. “Joseph is innocent, of course — that we all know. 
But there is no proof whatever that Mr. Badger is guilty 
any more than Joseph.” 

“My dear child, how can you say so?” Mrs. Noble 
retorted with emphasis. “The little sneak! The mean 
thief ! I knowed as he were no good the moment I set 
jeyes on him. He not guilty? He what brought our 
Joseph into this, and what give us all this worry an’ 
cryin’ to spoil our Christmas — as if it wasn’t miserable 
_enough already with the brokers in, an’ as poor as we 
are. Didn’t he give your brother them rings what his 
pals stole at that theer gentleman’s house? If he 
knowed nothin’ about that, you may call me a fool. 
But don’t you cry no more about it, my dearie, but let’s 
sit down an’ have a bit of something to eat, for you ain’t 
touched a morsel since yesterday, that you haven’t — 
not as big as a walnut. And just take your bonnet off, 
my dearie, and dry your eyes. Theer, now, theer.” 
The kindly old woman finished her speech with a couple 
of hearty kisses. 

“Now, miss,” chimed in Mr. Jones, “the jint’s been 
a-spilin’ this Aour or more, and if you don’t want to eat 
charcoal, 4 hookey sharp ’ ’s the word.” 

Mary took off her bonnet and shawl without saying 
a word, and joined Mrs. Noble and Mr. Jones at the 
table. The broker’s man was evidently on very good 


282 


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terms with the ladies, and, as a matter of fact, was any- 
thing but a bad-hearted fellow. His path of life lay 
among the poor. He was poor himself; a crippled wife 
and five hungry children were continually crying for 
bread and clothes in his third-floor lodging in Russell 
Street, Drury Lane. He had been a tradesman in a 
small way of business once, and had himself known 
what it was to have the brokers in. In spite of ungain- 
liness of figure and feature, he was more comic than 
unpleasant to look at, and to the two lonely and sorrow- 
ing ladies his presence, at this trying time, was rather 
a relief than otherwise. 

Mary made but a faint pretence of eating her dinner. 
She ate a piece of mutton about the size of a shilling, 
then laid down her knife and fork on each side of her 
plate. Mr. Jones, who sat at Mary’s right, first drank 
his own glass of four ale, and then, Mary’s glass being 
equally handy, he emptied that, and she never perceived 
it. 

Mrs. Noble was in sad distress that her charge could 
not be induced to partake of sufficient food, but the girl 
simply kissed her on the forehead, and stroked her gray 
hairs. 

“You must not trouble about me, Grannie Noble,” 
she said. “ You must really not. I do not feel a bit 
hungry. I have eaten all I want, and all I need, and, 
if you don’t mind, I’ll go upstairs to my room, and just 
lie down a bit, for I feel very, very tired.” 

Mary’s bedroom was on the first floor, the best one 
in the house, and the only one that retained anything 
like its original amount of furniture. It was as neat 
and as clean as the daintiest of housekeeping could 
make it, and a brighter little nest for a young girl in. 


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283 


an humble station of life would not easily be found in 
Chelsea, or Fulham either. 

Mary relieved herself of her walking-dress, and re- 
placed it by a colored print frock. She untied a wealth 
of light brown hair, and laid herself down upon her bed, 
hoping to sleep. 

Fortune had not favored poor Mary since she had left 
her father’s house. She had tried hard to find a situ- 
ation, and for a long time had failed. When at last one 
presented itself, Grannie Noble was ill in bed, having 
been prostrated by her great trouble and loss. Mary 
had it not in her heart to leave Grannie to face the 
storm alone, and her chance of obtaining a situation 
passed by and was lost. 

In the meantime, Mr. Cornelius, brought to the house 
by her brother Joseph, had been a constant visitor at 
the People’s Emporium. Grannie Mag disliked him 
instinctively, and was neither slow nor chary in ex- 
pressing her opinion. The good-natured, good-humored 
Joseph, however, assured his sister that Badger was 
“ one o’ the right sort — as decent a chap as ever stepped, 
though a little ’un” — and Mary, whose innate maidenly 
and lady-like instincts were becoming rather shocked 
by Mr. Badger’s over-accentuated mannerisms, accepted 
her brother’s advice with the confidence she would have 
placed in her father. Mr. Cornelius paid his addresses 
to her, and Mary hesitatingly tolerated a sort of distant 
courtship, with the idea that her brother wished her to 
like his boon companion, and that perhaps, some day, 
she might perceive qualities in Mr. Badger which would 
replace the illusions — long since vanished — which she 
had indulged in concerning the young man on their 
first acquaintance. 


284 


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It was, perhaps, lucky for Mary, under the circum- 
stances which the reader now knows, that she had 
always emphatically declined to accept any of the 
numerous presents which Mr. Cornelius had, from time 
to time, brought to Marlborough Road. Mr. Badger 
stated his profession as a traveller in the jewelry line, 
doing a considerable private trade on his own account, 
and he invariably carried, stowed away in various 
portions of his wearing apparel, little boxes, cases, and 
parcels containing watches and jewelry. Mrs. Noble 
had noticed that, when Mr. Badger first came to her 
house, the quality of the goods which formed Mr. 
Badger’s stock was of the cheap and flashy kind, but 
later on it improved wonderfully, until at last diamonds, 
rubies, and other gems of considerable value were 
frequently seen among his goods. To the shrewd old 
woman his rapid increase of fortune seemed suspicious, 
and she stated her opinion plain and straight to Mary, 
and warned both Joseph and her against him. The big 
young fellow, however, laughed at her, and called her a 
silly old Grannie, and told her that his friend Badger 
would in a very short time open a shop in the Brompton 
Road. “And I know a young lady,” he added, with a 
sly wink, “as will be mistress of that shop before she 
can say Jack Robinson, if she’ll only hold up her little 
finger.” 

“ Then I just hope as she won’t hold up her little 
finger,” Grannie replied fiercely. “ I’d rather see her 
married to a coal-heaver or a brewer’s drayman than to 
that cringin’ little whipper-snapper of a friend of yourn 
— theer!” 

One day, then barely a fortnight ago, Joseph came 
to Marlborough Road the proud wearer of two valuable 


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285 


single-stone diamond rings. To Mar}'’s and Mrs. 
Noble’s anxious inquiries as to how he came possessed 
of such property, he replied that he had had them given 
to him by Mr. Badger for the purpose of disposing of 
them, if possible, among his officers, and that there was 
no harm, he thought, if he wore them in the meantime. 
The explanation seemed satisfactory, and the ladies 
thought no more about the business until the awful 
news came to them that Joseph was a prisoner in Roch- 
ester Row police-station. To Grannie Noble’s mind, 
the only bit of comfort about the horrible news was 
that Mr. Cornelius was the life-guardsman’s companion 
in durance vile. 

“ I knew what it would come to,” she said ; “ I felt 
sure on it. If they’ll only hang that little scoundrel 
and let your brother go, I’ll think it all a good job.” 

Justice, however, was not the least disposed to treat 
the prisoners so arbitrarily or so unequally, and Mary 
was carried fainting from the crowded court-room when 
the jailers removed her brother. Since that moment 
her life had been a sort of half-trance. She did things 
and forgot that she had done them, and imagined she 
had done things which she had utterly omitted. Some- 
how or other she had got it in her mind that she had 
written to her father on the very first shock of Joseph’s 
imprisonment, but, poor thing! she had postponed it 
hourly, hoping that each passing short space of time 
might enable her to send better news. When she wrote 
to her father,’ at last, she had quite forgotten that she 
had not written before, and thus her letter became so 
vaguely worded. 

There are few female constitutions in which hysteria 
is not more or less latent. The robust, country-bred 


286 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


girl is perhaps less liable to it than her town sister, but, 
given favoring circumstances, the malady may show 
itself where least suspected. 

Mary was a courageous girl, but the load of shame 
and despair conveyed by her brother’s arrest on an 
infamous charge weighed her down completely. She 
had no doubt whatever of her brother’s innocence, but 
she had most dire misgivings as to whether he would 
be able to prove it. The evidence of the detectives, 
given with relentless precision and directness, left 
uncontradicted by her brother, the surroundings of the 
court, the squalor which she met there, the rough 
manners of the officers in charge, the crying women 
who sat in corners, — all made a terrible impression upon 
her, and her little mind was overburdened and crushed 
down by the thought, What would become of her 
father and her if Joseph were condemned? She imag- 
ined to herself the effect upon her father — he who had 
been so unyieldingly proud, so sternly honest. 

Her thoughts whirred and whirled in her brain, while 
she lay upon her bed with her face to the wall, and cried 
bitterly. They rushed upon and chased one another, 
they intermingled and passed one another, and at last, 
they became mixed up in hopeless confusion. There 
was no loving or sympathetic voice near by to call her 
from the chaos of her self-communings. There was no 
friendly hand to shake her, roughly if need be, when 
she turned round on her bed and commenced to laugh 
hysterically in heart-bi eaking, tiny little silvery peals, 
very much resembling those of an amused, quaint child, 
vague and vacant, over and over again repeated, and 
only interrupted, now and then, by an effort to repress 
the fast-flowing tears. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


287 


Over an hour elapsed before Grannie Noble, cau- 
tiously walking upstairs, opened Mary’s door to see if 
she were asleep, and iearful lest she might wake her. 
The girl was lying with her face towards the door, and 
there was such a heart-breaking expression in it that 
the old woman started back with a shriek. 

“For Heaven’s sake, child, what’s the matter with 
ye? What has happened?” 

Mary, still looking at her through her tears, wrung 
her hands. 

“ My brother isn’t a thief,” she babbled, in a small 
whimpering voice. “He never stole. He is not a 
thief. And you mustn’t lock him up. And you 
mustn’t say he did it. He is not a thief, really. If 
you ask them down at Thorbury they will tell you he 
is not a thief. He is my brother. And we are honest 
people. And we would never steal. It’s a shame to 
say he’s a thief. A great shame, a crying shame. And 
those rough men have no right to take him away. I’ll 
write to the Queen about it, that I will. Joseph always 
was honest, and nobody ever could say a word against 
him.” 

And so on in heart-breaking, disjointed hysteric 
babble. 

Mrs. Noble, after looking at Mary for a minute or 
two with her hands held to the sides of her own aching 
head, flew downstairs, and, without bonnet or shawl, 
rushed to the door. 

“ Where hare you goin’ to like this ? ” the broker’s 
man inquired in surprise. 

“ I am going to run for a doctor,” the old woman re- 
plied, half out of breath already ; “ I’m afeard my poor 
little Mary is going mad.” 


288 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Newspapers from London did not reach the country 
so quickly in those days as they do now, but the trans- 
mission was speedy enough for the village of Thorbury 
to be in a state of fever that afternoon. The burglary 
at Herndale House had been planned and carried out 
with so much daring as to attract the attention of the 
whole country, and anything relating to it was eagerly 
read everywhere. The London newspapers had re- 
ported Joseph’s Stringer’s appearance before the magis- 
trate, and the Birmingham journals had naturally copied 
that report. These reached Thorbury by the train 
which brought Mary’s letter to her father, and, as bad 
news always travels very fast, before half an hour was 
over there was not a man, woman, or child in the vil- 
lage who was unaware of the fact that their church- 
warden’s son was in prison on a charge of felony. 

The news reached the Rector, his family, and the 
Squire, while they were all sitting in the dining-room 
over their unfinished Christmas dinner. The butler, 
holding a folded newspaper in his hand, marked a place 
on it with his finger, and gave it to Mrs. Hay. 

“ That’s queer news, marm,” he said quietly, and 
walked away. 

They all knew Joseph, and all felt equally sure he 
was implicated in the business by some terrible mistake. 
Both the Rector and the Squire vowed him a straight- 
forward, honest, manly lad, too dull for practised ras- 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 289 

cality. If he were at all connected in the crime it must 
be as an unconscious tool of clever rogues. 

The Squire had related, after a fashion of his own, 
the upshot of his interview with Stringer, and Frank 
had given a humorous description, which he illustrated 
by mimicking the doughty churchwarden. Marmaduke 
Boyer’s murmurings notwithstanding, it had been re- 
solved that new overtures should be made to Mr. 
Stringer, and, with the present terrible news before 
them, they formed themselves into a council for the 
purpose of deciding in which way they might most 
efficiently assist poor Joseph. They arrived at the 
conclusion that some one — Frank was the person se- 
lected — should once more venture into Mr. Stringer’s 
redoubtable presence to offer assistance. 

When Frank reached the churchwarden’s house, he 
found the place absolutely silent, and to all appearance 
deserted. He went into the front parlor, into the back 
room in which Mr. Stringer usually transacted his ordi- 
nary business, into the kitchen, into the pantry. He 
looked out into the yard, and shouted upstairs, without 
seeing anybody or hearing a sound. A bright fire was 
burning in the kitchen grate and another in the parlor, 
but beyond the slight occasional crackling of these 
everything was as silent as death. 

The fact was that Susan, frightened at her master’s 
appearance, had gone out in search of advice, and thus 
had left both Stringer and the house unguarded. 

Frank, after repeatedly raising his voice to attract 
attention, went into the hall and groped his way up the 
stairs. He felt for and opened a door, and found him- 
self in a bright, cheery, well-furnished, unoccupied 
room. It had been Mary’s, and Stringer had it kept as 


290 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


it was on the day when his daughter left him. Frank 
quickly closed the door again, and tried another. This 
time he had hit the right place, for Stringer’s motionless 
eyes stared him in the face. A white coverlet was 
drawn tightly to his neck, and with his nightcap on his 
head, and with his usually rotund and florid face gone 
white, with his mouth wide open, gaping unconsciously, 
and an air of terrible vacancy settled all over him, he 
looked ghastly. The gray light of the winter after- 
noon streamed in above the short curtains of the win- 
dow, and aided in setting off distinctly his pallor and 
gauntness. 

“I am sorry, indeed, Mr. Stringer,” Frank com- 
menced ; and then stopped, seeing that the man con- 
tinued to look at him with the same awful vacant stare. 
“ I found nobody about the place, and could make 
nobody hear,” he continued; and Stringer’s eyes kept 
themselves fastened upon him as before. 

The young man was at a loss how to proceed. 
Stringer gave no sign of life but that fixed glare, and 
for all that meant the man might be dead. Frank 
approached nearer to the bed, and Stringer, with a con- 
vulsive movement, drew his limbs more tightly together 
beneath the sheets. 

“I am glad of that,” Frank muttered to himself. 
“ He isn’t dead — that’s one thing certain. But it isn’t 
a bit of good to talk to him now.” 

He was relieved in his mind on hearing the noise of 
an opened door downstairs. Susan appeared a moment 
or two afterwards, with the village physician, who de- 
clared Mr. Stringer to be in a state of high fever. It 
was therefore useless for Frank to remain, and he re- 
turned to the Rectory, where the news he brought 
created a profound impression. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


291 


Stringer was a prey to delirium and high fever for the 
whole of the following night, and the day &nd night that 
followed. He was a little better on the day after that, 
but he could not yet quite appreciate what was passing 
around him. There was one circumstance he could not 
understand at all, and he thought he was dreaming. A 
pleasant, sweet-faced young lady'was sitting by his bed- 
side, waiting upon him, with delicate fingers smoothing his 
pillow — not his Mary, but just as gentle, as soft-voiced, 
and as fair. He knew her and he did not know her, 
and he was satisfied to let matters be where they were, 
and be attended to and cared for by that ministering 
angel. And there was generally an elderly lady with 
her, and he could have sworn it was Mrs. Dr. Hay, only 
he had no feeling of spite against her at all, and how 
could it be Mrs. Dr. Hay if he did not hate her? But 
the most amazing portion of his dream came when the 
Rector himself entered his room, and with closed eyes 
seemed to look at him, and sat himself down by his 
bedside and spoke to him kindly, without a reproach of 
any kind in voice or tone, and as if nothing whatever 
had happened between them, and he — that made him 
feel certain he was dreaming — felt no spite against the 
Rector either, no sentiment of any kind, one way or 
the other. 

He felt no spite against anybody. He felt weary of 
the world and of everything, and was quite willing to 
let people have their own way, as long as they did not 
trouble him, and were kind and nice to him as every- 
body was at that moment. He did not feel annoyed 
even when old Susan dropped the teaspoon on to the floor 
— and it made clatter and noise enough to frighten a 
dozen men, he thought — and he never uttered a word 


292 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


of reproach, never thought about doing so, when she 
spilled quite a quarter of a teaspoonful of his medicine 
on the coverlet. 

A day more passed like that, and another, and on the 
morning of the day after that Mrs. Hay and Ophelia, 
entering the parlor of Mr. Stringer’s house, were met 
by the old woman. 

“ How is Mr. Stringer ? ” they asked. 

“Oh, he’s better, ladies. He’s wonderful better. 
He’s been abusin’ me all mornin’ like a pickpocket. I 
know he’s better. He’s been chuckin’ things about. 
I’m so glad, that I am ! ” 

“ Well, shall we go upstairs and see him? ” Mrs. Hay 
asked Ophelia. 

“ Don’t you go, ladies ; don’t you go,” Susan ex- 
claimed in a fright. “He’d bite your heads off. He 
can go on when he likes, Mr. Stringer can. He don’t 
mind what he’s a-sayin’ either, nor who he’s a-sayin’ it 
to, and he’ll make no more bones about flyin’ out on 
you — theer.” 

“Well, Susan,” replied Mrs. Hay, “will you go up- 
stairs and tell Mr. Stringer that we have come to in- 
quire about him and are glad to hear he is better ? ” 

The old woman shook her head as in misgiving, but 
she toddled upstairs nevertheless. Directly afterwards 
they could hear Mr. Stringer’s strident voice raised as 
though in anger, followed by the rapid closing of a door 
and Susan reappeared in a state of utter discom- 
fiture. 

“Why, what has happened?” Mrs. Hay inquired. 
“ You are trembling. What did Mr. Stringer say ? ” 

“ I don’t like to tell you, ladies,” the housekeeper an- 
swered timidly. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


293 


“We are prepared for the worst,” Ophelia cried, with 
a pretty laugh. “ What did Mr. Stringer say ? ” 

“ He said,” Susan stammered — “ he said , 4 Thank you 
for nothin’, and the sooner they gets out o’ my house 
the better I’ll like it.’ ” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Hay, “ Mr. Stringer is decidedly 
better. He is becoming quite himself again. We need 
not fear to leave him in Susan’s hands now.” 

That Mr. Stringer was decidedly and astonishingly 
better the preceding incident has proved. His bull-dog 
disposition began to assert itself, and his recovery was 
so rapid as to amaze the local physician. 

But with the increase of the strength of his body and 
mind came also the re-perception and appreciation of the 
misfortune which had befallen him through Joseph. 

But his wits were quick now, as they had always been, 
and, being well acquainted with the usual course of 
criminal prosecutions, he had no difficulty in picturing 
to himself the state at which Joseph’s case had arrived 
by that time. 

“ He’s been committed for trial,” he said to himself ; 
“ that’s certain, whether lie’s guilty or whether he’s not. 
And they won’t have taken no bail, neither — that’s 
sure again. So there’s bin no time lost. What they 
want is money to pay the lawyers, and all sorts o’ things. 
I did take a hoath that he’d never have a ha’penny o’ 
mine again, but one can’t let one’s own flesh and blood 
go to penal servitude without raisin’ a hand to help him 
— so I suppose I’ve got to do it.” 

He was able to walk about his bedroom, slowly and 
with an effort, of course, and he went to a small cup- 
board in the corner, which he unlocked. Within that 
cupboard, secured to the bricks of the wall, was an iron 


294 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


box. He opened this also, and from a small sheaf of 
bank-notes he took two of ten pounds each. Then he 
closed and locked again both the box and the cupboard. 

The next step — that of writing a letter — was not so 
easy. Neither the pen, nor the paper, nor the ink, was 
to his liking, and four sheets travelled into the fire be- 
fore he could express himself as he liked. 

My dear Mary, he wrote at last. I'm ill else would have 
written before I send 20 pound I don’t send it for Joseph I 
would not send him a farthing not one but I send it to you and if 
you like to help your brother with it thats your bisness and not 
mine 

Your affectionate father 

Isaac Stringer. 

Marlborough Road was steeped in an intense, horrid 
black fog on the morning when Stringer’s letter reached 
the People’s Emporium. Gaslights were flaring in win- 
dows and shops, and the rare pedestrians flitted about 
the street like phantoms. 

In the back parlor of the empty shop Mrs. Noble was 
sitting before the fireless grate, holding in her hand a 
doctor’s prescription, and looking at it in silent, tearless 
grief. The chemist demanded two and threepence 
before he would deliver the medicine, and Mrs. Noble 
had not a fourth of that sum. And there was Mary 
lying upstairs, but barely and slowly recovering. She 
ought to have had that medicine two hours ago. 

Grannie Noble was counting her coppers, and proving 
to herself the long-established fact that six is not twenty- 
seven, when the door was pushed open blithely, and the 
postman appeared on the threshold. 

“Miss Mary Stringer,” he shouted. “A registered 
letter. Sixpence to pay.” 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


295 


Grannie Noble was not long in recognizing Isaac 
Stringer’s handwriting, and she flew upstairs as fast as 
her old legs could carry her. 

“ A letter from your father, my dear,” she cried. “ A 
registered one.” 

When Mary opened the letter and those two notes fell 
out, oh, what a joy welled there to the old woman’s 
heart ! 

“ You shall have your medicine, now,” she cried, “ and 
your fire, and your beef-tea. And we shall soon have 
the roses back to your cheeks again, and you’ll be as 
well as ever.” 

“ Ah,” replied Mary, in her weak, small voice, “ but 
remember poor Joseph. We must help him, and imme- 
diately too. Didn’t I tell you that my father was the 
best father in the world ? ” 

“ Oh, he’s good enough at the bottom,” Grannie Noble 
replied, “ only one’s got to take a pickaxe to get at it ! ” 


296 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

One morning the Rector received a letter from Saint 
Sauveur. For months past there had been no organ, 
and the post of organist of Thorbury Church was, 
therefore, a sinecure. Saint Sauveur had occupied his 
time in travelling about the Continent endeavoring to 
track down Messrs. Reinemann and Mac Wraith, and to 
discover the exact facts about the missing Bible. The 
letter which the Rector received informed him of the 
partial success of his friend’s efforts. 

There was no doubt that the Thorbury Bishops’ 
Bible, minus its original binding, was in the possession 
of a well-known and highly respectable firm of book- 
sellers in Leipzig. They had purchased the book from 
another equally well-known and equally highly respect- 
able firm in Berlin. This firm, again, had bought the 
book from the catalogue of a similarly well-known and 
similarly respected firm in Paris, and the Parisian house 
had purchased it, in the ordinary and regular course of 
business, from a gentleman who lived in good style in 
one of the Parisian hotels, and whom they had not seen 
since. The man had been registered in the books of 
the hotel under a name which was, of course, false ; 
but the description given of his appearance by the clerk 
of the hotel and the bookseller’s employes left no doubt 
of his identity with Reinemann. 

French law is very particular in the matter of second- 
hand purchases. The buyer is compelled to go to the 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


297 


seller’s lodgings, and to pay for his purchase there. In 
doing so he is supposed to have assured himself of the 
identity of the person with whom he is dealing, and of 
the latter’s right of ownership to the article sold. 
There his responsibility ends. All these conditions had 
been properly fulfilled by the Paris firm. They had 
bought the book in the ordinary run of their business, 
with the ordinary precautions prescribed by law, and to 
be able to claim the book as stolen property, even if the 
fact could have been proved without considerable diffi- 
culty, Saint Sauveur would have had to set in motion 
the cumbrous and circumlocutionary machinery of no 
less than four Foreign Offices, namely, those of Eng- 
land, France, Prussia, and Saxony. 

The French firm had paid four thousand francs for 
the book. They had put it into their catalogue at five 
thousand five hundred, and had received that sum less 
ten per cent, discount. The Berlin firm had marked 
the book at two thousand five hundred thalers. They 
had been paid for it, and had not allowed the usual 
trade discount; in fact, there had been some rather 
angry correspondence on the matter, because the Berlin 
firm, on discovering the great value and the unique 
condition of the book, wished to raise its price. 

The Leipzig booksellers, probably for the purpose of 
obtaining a better price by mystifying Saint Sauveur, 
bethought themselves of a combination of the petty 
German coinage of the period — for in Saxony at that 
time both thalers and florins were current — and fixed 
their price at eight thousand five hundred German 
florins, or a little over seven hundred pounds English. 
To Saint Sauveur’s remonstrances they replied that 
they certainly considered Dr. Hay’s case very hard, but 


298 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


that they had come by the book in the course of per- 
fectly straightforward, honest trade, and that the utmost 
reduction they could make in their price, Under the 
circumstances, would be five hundred florins. 

To Dr. Hay this was heavy news. The letter came 
to him at the breakfast-table, and was read to him by 
Ophelia. 

“ Six hundred and fifty pounds ! ” he murmured. 
u Six hundred and fifty pounds! How am I to get it? 
I owe a lot of money to the builders now, and I cannot 
hope to make up such a sum in the next two years. I 
must get the book back, however. My honor is 
involved in that, and the parishioners have a right to 
expect that I will restore it to them.” 

“Surely these Germans,” said Ophelia, “might forego 
their profit. They know how you have been robbed, 
and it seems hard that you should have to pay for the 
book five hundred pounds more than the rascals them- 
selves obtained.” 

“ I have not the slightest hope that I will succeed in 
anything of the kind,” Dr. Hay replied. “ On the 
contrary, these men know that I am bound to buy the 
book back, sooner or later, and that I shall have to give 
whatever they ask. If I could see these people myself, 
perhaps, I do not know what I might get them to do. 
But, after all, I cannot blame them. I suppose they 
consider it fair in business. The whole thing is my 
fault. I ought to have watched these men more 
closely.” 

“ My dear Denis, my dear Denis ! ” Mrs. Hay inter- 
posed. “You have nothing whatever to blame yourself 
about. How could you doubt them after Mr. Matlock’s 
introduction ? ” 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


299 


“ The fact remains — the fact remains, my dear,” the 
Rector replied soothingly. 44 When I came here there 
was a Bible in that church that had been there nearly 
since the days of the Reformation. Look at that 
bracelet on your arm. That’s your dear grandmother’s 
hair, isn’t it? Suppose that clasp was damaged, and 
you sent it to Birmingham to the jeweller to be repaired 
— ” his hand was laid gently on his wife’s, and his 
sightless eyes were turned towards her. He felt for 
the bracelet, which he knew to be always on her arm, 
and tapped on it gently. 44 Now suppose,” he continued, 
44 the jeweller lost or made away with this bracelet, and, 
in return for this fair silver-streaked braid of hair, he 
sent you one of a darker shade. Why, he might put a 
clasp of diamonds on it, and you would feel your loss 
irretrievable, nevertheless, would you not? ” 

He could not see that she nodded an affirmative reply, 
but his senses had become so keen that the slight tremor 
of the white hand assured him that he was answered. 

44 Well, you see, my dear,” he continued, 44 my par- 
ishioners have as much right to their Bible as you to 
your bracelet, and the moment I have these builders off 
my shoulders I must make an effort to raise the money. 
We will have to do with less servants, and then you 
know there is one extravagance I am spared. I can’t 
ruin myself in books.” 

If the Rector’s opportunity for extravagance in books 
was past, there remained plenty of ways to rid him of 
his stock of money. The winter was an unusually hard 
one, and the Rectory pensioners more numerous than 
ever. 

The blind Rector on his rounds of charity was a pic- 
ture that deserved to dwell in the memory. He stooped 


300 


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a little more than before, and his tall form seemed to 
have lost some of its elasticity ; his hair had gone 
whiter and sparser, and he walked more cautiously and 
more slowly. But his face shone with the best of good- 
humor, with the brightest contentment, and his great 
affliction had been unable to cloud a feature. He per- 
sisted in his endeavor to walk about unaided — a stick 
his only help. Of course there were loving arms always 
ready to protect and guide him ; but it pleased him to 
think he could walk about alone, and those who loved 
him were happy to allow him to remain thus pleased. 

With the loss of his sight, his faculty of hearing and 
general perception became wonderfully sharpened. He 
would recognize a step that was inaudible to others. 
An intonation of the voice gave him the clew to move- 
ments of the body, and he was never mistaken about 
the direction whence a sound proceeded. 

He must have been a hard-hearted man, indeed, who 
could have looked into that sightless face, and not have 
been struck with pity and reverence. His sermons, now 
forcedly, absolutely extempore, made an immediate sen- 
sation. The restored Thorbury Church received visitors 
it had not known in the olden days, for people streamed 
in from all the country-side, to hear the blind preacher’s 
lovely sermons and inspiring service. 

No word of complaint ever escaped his lips. All the 
world was black to him, and yet he looked as cheerful 
as, ever. 

“ I’d niver know’d as th’ Rector weer blind,” one old 
woman said to her gossiping friend, u if thee hadst not 
told me. His eyes weer closed, to be sure, but he weer 
so cheery and he larfed so nat’ral, that I cum to think 
as he did it o’ purpose, an’ theer was nowt the matter 
wi’ him.” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


§01 


He was as solicitous as ever for the needs of those 
poor waifs and strays of humanity who had been wont 
to rely on his charity and goodness. With his usual 
kindliness of heart and simplicity of nature, he set him- 
self up as a defender of more than one worthless inhab- 
itant of his parish. Among these Jonah Wood ranked 
foremost. 

Jonah had, figuratively speaking, gone thoroughly to 
the dogs. Since, by his carelessness, Thorbury Church 
had been destroyed by fire, and the Rector had suffered so 
grievously, an evil reputation had fastened itself upon 
Master Wood, and had clung to him like a prison taint. 
Jonah was not only a ne’er-do-well, but an unlucky one. 
He was not only always in mischief himself, but the cause 
of abundant misfortunes to those who employed him. 
He was not only perpetually without a shilling, but the 
superstitious country people had heard it rumored, and 
believed firmly, that pecuniary loss fell upon those who 
made use of Jonah’s services. His name was Jonah, 
and a Jonah he was. 

The only person who would give him anything like 
regular employment, the Rector, had suffered terribly 
for his rashness, and there were folk in Thorbury, other- 
wise sensible people, who said that it was flying in the 
face of Providence to employ Jonah after so fearful a 
warning. The result was that no one would employ 
Jonah, either to hew wood or draw water; and the lad, 
driven from honest work, took to the use of his time 
which was" most congenial to him, that of poaching. He 
was caught by the keepers at night-time on enclosed 
premises, though, luckily for himself, no evidences of 
actual crime were found about him. The result was a 
sentence of a month’s imprisonment, which nearly broke 
poor Habakkuk’s heart. 


m 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


Jonah returned from jail lean, pale, and haggard, 
with his hair cut close, a woe-begone object indeed, and 
would certainly have fallen back upon his evil practices, 
to be visited by still greater punishments, had not Dr. 
Hay paid twelve pounds out of his own pocket, 
and obtained for the lad an assisted passage to Aus- 
tralia. Even the Stringerites could find no objec- 
tion to the Rector’s course in ridding the parish of so 
undesirable an inhabitant. They simply expressed an 
opinion that he would never reach Australia, but that 
any vessel carrying Master Jonah would go down on the 
way. 

“ Twelve pound ! ” exclaimed one of the churchwar- 
den’s partisans. “ If I weer captin o’ that theer ship I 
wouldn’t take Jonah, no, not fur twelve hundred pound. 
He’d drown a whale, he would, an’ set fire to him in the 
middle o’ the sea arterwards. An’ if that ship ever does 
get to Melbourne, a hearthquake will swallow the place 
within a week, you see if it don’t ! ” 

Luckily for poor Jonah, all the various predictions of 
evil that were indulged in by the population had no ef- 
fect upon the Rector, and one morning in January Dr. 
Hay and Frank were comfortably seated in a first-class 
carriage travelling to London, while Master Jonah and 
his worldly goods, consisting of a small wooden box and 
an untidy parcel from which a pair of boots protruded, 
were stowed away in a third-class compartment of the 
same train. 

The fast-sailing clipper Australasia was lying at the 
East India Docks waiting to leave the port with nearly 
four hundred emigrants. The chaplain who sailed in 
the vessel was an acquaintance of Dr. Hay’s, and the 
good Rector had insisted on personally leaving Jonah 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


308 


in his charge. He knew the lad to be obstreperous, mis- 
chievous, and intolerably lazy, yet not utterly devoid of 
good qualities ; and he wished to make his friend under- 
stand the young man’s character, so that his faults might 
be minimized, and such virtues as he possessed made 
use of. 

To this charitable action he devoted nearly an entire 
day, and when Jonah had been handed over to the good 
chaplain’s care, Dr. Hay and Frank bent their steps 
westward. 

“ We mustn’t forget poor Joseph Stringer,” the Doc- 
tor said. “ His father was as hard on him as he is 
towards me.” 

“ As hard? ” Frank exclaimed. “ As pig-headed and 
as asinine, you mean, Doctor.” 

“We have different modes of expressing ourselves, 
Frank,” the Doctor replied ; “ and if they denote our 
feelings equally they will serve. It isn’t the man’s 
fault ; he can no more help it than he can help meas- 
uring forty-six inches round the waist.” 

“There I have you again, Doctor,” Frank cried in 
high glee. “Stringer could as easily reduce his girth 
as he could get rid of his spitefulness, if he tried.” 

“Ah ! ” exclaimed the Doctor; “ the Ethiopian cannot 
change his skin nor the leopard his spots, and we must 
accept Mr. Stringer as he is given us. We cannot ex- 
pect him to be kinder to us than he is to his own flesh 
and blood. I think he would help poor Joseph if he 
were not too ill, and although I should not like to be 
in Mr. Stringer’s shoes all the year round, I hope he 
won’t think me presumptuous for stepping into them 
just this once. Besides that, I haven’t paid a visit to 
Grannie Noble since she has been in London. She is a 


304 


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dear, good old creature and I shall be glad to shake 
hands with her.” 

They were in the most crowded part of Fenchurch 
Street and the Rector walked on Frank’s arm as if the 
world was as full of light to him as to every unit of 
the busy crowd that surged in the street. 

“ You had better take a cab, I think, sir, as soon as 
we can get to the Bank,” Frank suggested. “It’s a 
long way to the Fulham Road.” 

“ A long way ! ” the Doctor replied ; “ not a yard 
over four miles, I wager. What do you say to walking 
there to get up an appetite for dinner ? ” 

The young man consented heartily, and the two 
shouldered their way through the hive, and soon got 
into the less densely crowded pavements of Cheapside. 
Thence along Ludgate Hill, Fleet Street, the Strand, 
into Pall Mall, and across the Green Park into Chelsea 
they went with swinging steps at a regular athletic 
marching pace. 

“ I wanted to see if I could make you give in,” the 
Rector exclaimed gleefully when they reached Mrs. 
Noble’s door ; “but you can walk pretty well, and I shall 
have to find a younger man than myself to wear you 
out.” 

The indomitable endurance of the man spoke in that 
little thing as in most of his other acts. 

A moment afterwards there were such hand-shakings, 
and such glad tears, and such bashful courtesies, and 
such proud confusion in the Emporium, and Grannie 
Noble declared that she didn’t know if she was standing 
on her head or on her heels, and that she had never 
been so honored in all her born days, and that she would 
remember that day for all the rest of her life ; whilst 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


305 


Mary, with pale, thin face and languid eyes, tried hard 
to blush, and had not the strength to succeed, and could 
only stammer little nothings of thanks. And then, on 
a sudden, both the old woman and the young noticed 
the Rector’s sightlessness, and they both commenced to 
cry, and there was much ado before Frank and the 
Doctor could soothe the pair. Mary had heard all 
about her father’s charge against the Rector and knew 
that it was the cause of the Doctor’s walking into the 
fire. She felt as if she were partly responsible for his 
great loss, and here was he who had suffered so much 
at her father’s hands endeavoring to do good to her 
brother and to her. It required the Rector’s kindliest 
persuasion, his softest and gentlest exhortation, to make 
the poor girl feel at ease in his presence. 

“Don’t you cry, dearie,” Grannie Noble interposed. 
“ It ain’t your fault if you’ve got a bull-head of a 
father. You can’t expect him to treat other folk better 
than he does Iris own children. Theer now, dry your 
eyes. Your cryin’ can’t wash him clean. Let me get 
a kettle on the hob. Dr. Hay and Mr. Frank must be 
starved for a cup o’ tea this cold day, and they cornin’ 
here afoot, too.” 

Remonstrances were useless. The good old creature 
insisted that Dr. Hay and Frank must be frozen nearly 
to death, and would not accept a refusal. The Empo- 
rium still boasted half a dozen nice white gold-rimmed 
teacups and saucers, and these were produced with a 
ceremonial befitting the grandeur of the occasion. In 
less than no time Dr. Hay was able to pursue his 
inquiries about Joseph, fronted b}' a steaming dish of 
toast and flanked by a great brown earthenware teapot, 
a relic of old Staffordshire, in which — so Grannie Noble 


806 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


vowed — her great-grandmother had brewed tea before 
her. 

Some time elapsed before Dr. Hay could get such a 
clear statement of Joseph’s case as gave him a fair idea 
of the latter’s prospects of liberation. Mary’s remarks 
were precise and pertinent enough, but she was at every 
point interrupted by Mrs. Noble, who emphasized and 
punctuated her phrases with uncomplimentary expres- 
sions about Mr. Badger, and with unnecessary state- 
ments as to where the Lothario of the oiled locks and 
the cheap jewelry should for the future reside. 

“ Portland Jail’s too good for him,” the old lady 
insisted. “ A mean, sneakin’ little thief, what would 
have cheated our Mary out of her heart if I hadn’t 
warned her in time, poor thing. And he a-bringin’ dis- 
grace, an’ shame, an’ prison, on poor Joseph, what’s as 
innocent as a babe hunborn, I assure you, gentlemen ; 
an’ I’ll take my oath afore a judge an’ jury as he niver 
knowed no more as to how that young scamp gof them 
rings, no more than I or you, gentlemen, what knows 
nothing at all about it. An’ he in jail all this time, 
an’ not bein’ allowed to speak up for himself, an’ the 
lawyers a set o’ fools, I make bold to say, else they 
would ’a’ got him out long ago, an’ proved that he niver 
did it, which is as plain as daylight to hanybody as sees 
that poor lad’s face that he ain’t a jail-bird nor a thief 
neither. Which I’ll say that for his father, though I’d 
hate the sight of him, as he brought up his children 
respectable, an’ honest, an’ to make their own livin’ 
with their own ’ands, an’ not out of other people’s 
pockets — as I’ll not say as much for that scrubby little 
Badger, as hangin’ is too good for.” 

The old woman sank back against her chair with her 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 307 

arms akimbo, and looked around the circle, as if defying 
contradiction. 

“ I’ll go and have a talk with the solicitor you are 
employing,” Dr. Hay said; “and we must put our 
heads together and see how we can help Joseph when 
the trial comes. The getting-up and collection of ex- 
onerating evidence, and proofs of good character, is a 
very important matter. I will talk to your solicitor 
about that. And now, my dear Miss Stringer, you 
can make your mind easy about one thing. Your 
father is unwell, and may not be able to be present when 
the day comes ; but your brother shall have one friend 
from his own village to raise his voice on his behalf, I 
promise you.” 

“ There’ll be two of us, Doctor,” Frank chimed in. 
“ Don’t forget me.” 


308 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

As good-luck would have it, Mary had been able to 
find a respectable solicitor to undertake her brother’s 
defence. The conduct of ordinary police-court cases is 
not generally accepted by attorneys of very high stand- 
ing in their profession ; but Mrs. Noble had been able 
to obtain an introduction from a neighboring wealthy 
tradesman to a young solicitor in Abingdon Street, 
Westminister, who had a reputation for clear-headed- 
ness, energy, and scrupulous honesty. 

Mr. Ambrose Headingly’s office was situated on the 
second floor of a big house which had, in the time of 
the Georges, served for a family mansion. A wide 
staircase brought the visitor to a landing, which was 
flanked on either side by numerous doors. 

Dr. Hay and Frank entered one of these, which bore, 
on a brass plate, the inscription, “ A. Headingly. Clerks’ 
Office.” It was a spacious room, one half of which 
was divided off by a high partition, behind which pens 
could be heard rushing across paper and parchment at 
confused speeds. 

" And what can I do for you, gentlemen ? ” demanded 
a perky lad, who barely looked up from the document 
he was engaged in writing out. 

“We want to see Mr. Headingly,” Frank replied. 

The lad raised his head, and saw before him two gen- 
tlemen, one of whom wore the garb of a clergyman of 
the Church of England. That seemed to him to be 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


309 


sufficient primary introduction, for he rose and simply 
asked : 

“ What business please, gentlemen ? ” 

“We come about the case of Joseph Stringer,” Frank 
replied. 

“ Oh, I remember,” the lad answered. u Police-court 
affair.” 

Caution seemed to be a matter of order with him, for 
he produced a small square scrap of paper, and said : 

“ Will you please write down here your names, that 
I may take them to Mr. Headingly? ” 

The names were scribbled down, and the lad disap- 
peared behind a baize- covered door on the right of the 
room. A few seconds afterwards he came back. 

“ Mr. Headingly will see you immediately, gentlemen, 
if you will kindly step this way,” he said. 

They passed through a passage hung with old-fash- 
ioned oil-paintings, evidences of departed glories. An- 
other door opened, and Frank and the Rector found 
themselves in a large room, at the further end of which 
three windows reached nearly from the ceiling to the 
ground. In spite of its vastness there was a cosey look 
about the place. Mr. Headingly was awaiting his visi- 
tors, standing behind his desk, and with a wave of the 
hand motioned them to chairs in front of him. He was 
a man of about thirty-six years of age, trim and neat, 
with keen gray eyes* a slightly aquiline nose, and a 
small dark mustache. 

“ This is a sad business, I’m afraid, gentlemen,” he 
said, when Frank had explained the object of their visit. 
u You see, they prove that this young man was twice seen 
in the company of one of the actual burglars. We have to 
prove that he is unconnected with them, and it is most* 


310 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE . 


difficult to prove a negative. Of course we have his 
alibi for the night when the crime was committed, sup- 
ported by the evidence of his own officers. He seems to 
bear a generally good character ; that is the one thing 
in his favor. The police are very irritated about this 
affair, and they will not show him much mercy. His 
only chance is a full confession by the young scamp 
who led him into this scrape. That, of course, is prob- 
lematical at the present moment. His trial will take 
place next Monday or Tuesday week, and I ought to be 
in a position to give a retainer, on his behalf, either to 
Mr. Gregory or to Mr. Warren. They are the best men 
to defend such a case as this, which depends more upon 
the impression the counsel can make upon the jury than 
upon actual evidence.” 

“ That will be an expensive matter, I suppose ? ” Dr. 
Hay asked. 

“ It will cost thirty or forty guineas,” the lawyer an- 
swered. u But ten guineas will be sufficient for imme- 
diate purposes.” 

“A lot of money, Frank,” Dr. Hay rejoined quietly. 
“ A lot of money — especially so just now. But I will 
have to spare it somehow or other. Have you your 
check-book with you, Frank? If so, please write out 
a check for ten guineas, and I will return you the 
money when we get to Thorbury.” 

Frank protested that he would be only too glad to 
pay the money himself, but the Rector would have it his 
own way. 

“ I’ll take that charge upon myself,” he said, “ and 
perhaps one of these days Stringer will pay me back. 
If he does not — well, I shall have to do without it.” 

The little slip of paper was handed to Mr. Headingly, 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


311 


and the solicitor was in the act of proceeding to jot 
down such evidence of Joseph’s good character as 
Frank and the Rector could suggest, when a gentle tap 
was heard on the door. The perky lad entered noise- 
lessly, and laid a little slip of paper before his employer. 

“If you are not in too great a hurry, gentlemen,” 
said Mr. Headingly, “ I would ask you to spare me a 
minute while I glance over an important document.” 

Dr. Hay and Frank both assured him that they were 
not at all pressed for time. 

“ Show the man in, please,” Headingly said to his 
clerk, and the latter returned a moment afterwards with 
an old man — a clerk of the better class to all appear- 
ances, dressed in irreproachable black. His hair was 
perfectly white, his face of a grayish hue, and quite 
clean-shaven. His restless reddish brown eyes wan- 
dered nervously all over the room and its occupants. 
They settled for a moment on Dr. Hay and on Frank, 
and a slight tremor seemed to shake the man at the 
time. Dr. Hay’s blind face was turned full towards him 
and he looked at the Rector for a second with a half- 
frightened gaze, which transformed itself into a sickly 
smile when he saw that the eyes were closed and sight- 
less. Then his look crawled towards Frank, as a spider 
would, hesitatingly, and, being met with blank uncon- 
cern, flashed away again, and a peculiar little cast set- 
tled itself upon, and gave a nearly diabolical expression 
to, the red-brown eyes. 

He handed a sheet of vellum, on which some address 
of congratulation or compliment had been elaborately 
engrossed, to Mr. Headingly, and the latter examined 
it with apparent satisfaction. 

“ You have done that very well, and I’m very pleased 


812 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


with it,” the lawyer said, “ and I’m especially pleased 
that you’ve done it in time. Lord Retford was particu- 
larly anxious about that. I suppose Messrs. Roche and 
Underwood will send me the bill for this. Will they 
charge by the job or according to time ? ” 

“ Ah don’t exactly know, sir,” the man replied ; 
“ but Ah’ll ask.” 

At the sound of the man’s voice Dr. Hay, whose face 
had gone into a sort of reverie during the conversation, 
drew himself up slowly, and a curious amazement set- 
tled itself on his features. 

“ I will settle Messrs. Roche and Underwood’s charges, 
whatever they may be,” Mr. Headingly said ; “ and 
here’s a half-sovereign for you besides.” 

“ Thank ye, sir,” the man replied, and Dr. Hay, sit- 
ting bolt-upright, turned his sightless face towards him. 

“Mr. Headingly, will you please ask this man his 
name,” he said quietly, and the old clerk’s grayish face 
went nearly green. 

“I will, certainly, if you wish it,” the lawyer said. 
“ What is your name, sir, if you please ? ” 

“ Ah don’t see what that’s got to do wi’ anybody,” 
the clerk replied after a moment’s hesitation. “ Ah’m 
sent by Messrs. Roche and Underwood, and ma name 
isn’t ony business to nobody.” 

With that he was about to shuffle away, when Frank, 
dashing in front of him, laid his hand on his breast. 

“ Stay, sir,” he said. “ I’m beginning to know you, 
I think, in spite of your white hair and your clean- 
shaven face.” 

“ Ay, ay ! ” the lawyer exclaimed. “ This seems to 
be more important than I thought. What may be the 
matter, Dr. Hay? ” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


313 


“ I think you will have another case on your hands, 
Mr. Headingly,” Dr. Hay replied ; “ and unless this 
man can convince me that I am wrong it will be a police- 
court affair.” 

“In that case,” the lawyer exclaimed sternly, “per- 
haps you will be good enough to sit down there, Mr. 

, I don’t know your name, and answer Dr. Hay’s 

questions categorically.” 

The man looked as if he would much rather have 
been near the crater of Vesuvius during an eruption, or 
on board of a leaking ship during a howling hurricane, 
anywhere but where he stood at that moment. His 
lips moved silently, and his hands trembled by his 
sides. 

“ Ah’ve nothing to conceal,” he said at last, and sat 
down stubbornly, whilst Frank placed himself behind 
him, with his hand on the back of his chair, ready to 
retain him by force if he endeavored to escape. 

“Your name, sir? ” Dr. Hay asked. 

“Andrew Hopkins,” the man replied unabashed. 

“That is not true,” Dr. Hay retorted. “ Your name 
is Mac Wraith.” 

The man was evidently by this time prepared for the 
shock, for he smiled unconcernedly and brazenly, and 
the little cast in his eye gave him quite a weirdly gro- 
tesque appearance. 

“ Not a bit,” he snarled. “ Ma name’s Hopkins — 
Andrew Hopkins.” 

“You say that which is not true,” the Rector said, in 
a perfectly even voice. “Your name is Mac Wraith, 
and you are one of the two men — Reinemann and 
Mac Wraith — who stole the Bishops’ Bible at Thorbury, 
and left an imitation in its place*” 


814 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


Even that accusation seemed to make no impression 
upon the man so charged. He shook his head stub- 
bornly. 

‘C\la gracious ! ” he exclaimed. “ How can ye say 
so?” 

“ Will you allow me, Dr. Hay,” Mr. Headingly in- 
terfered, “ to take up this interrogation myself ? It will 
be better so. Unless Mr. — Hopkins you call yourself 
— can prove to my satisfaction that he is not Mr. Mac- 
Wraith who stole the Bible, it will be my duty, I sup- 
pose, to call in a constable and give him into custody.” 

“ Quite so — quite so,” Dr. Hay replied stolidly. 

At this quiet intimation, Mr. Hopkins, whose face 
before that had been a mixture of ashen and sickly 
green, turned paler than ever. 

“Your name is Andrew Hopkins?” Mr. Headingly 
asked sternly. 

“Yes, sir,” the man replied in a scarcely audible 
voice. 

“ Your father’s name, sir? ” 

This in a tone of command. 

“ Hopkins,” the man answered, as nervously as before. 

“Hopkins, of course. His Christian name?” 

There was a moment’s hesitation, then came a faint 
“ George.” 

“ So your father’s name was George Hopkins ; and 
your mother’s ? ” 

This style of peremptory cross-examination took Mr. 
Hopkins quite aback. He muttered and mumbled for 
a moment or two, but his answer was so indistinct that 
none of the listeners could catch it. 

“ It is useless to continue questioning this man 
further,” Dr. Hay interrupted. “ I am certain of his 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


315 


identity ; T recognized him the moment I heard his 
voice, and every word he has spoken has confirmed the 
impression. Look at him, Frank ! Surely you know 
the man? You have seen him.” 

Young Boyer, who, as we know, had been standing 
behind Mr. Hopkins’s chair, moved sideways so as to 
allow the light to fall on the shifty face. Suddenly a 
ludicrous idea flashed through Frank’s mind. With a 
rapid sweep of the arm he grasped Mr. Hopkins’s silvery 
locks. A slight pull, and Frank held aloft a well-made 
wig, deprived of which Mr. Mac Wraith stood revealed 
in all the sandy gloss of his own hair. With a yell of 
despair he flung himself upon the young man, who 
towered nearly a head and shoulders above him ; but he 
might as well have attempted to rob Hercules of his 
club, as to regain possession of his wig where it was 
held by Frank, who was laughing heartily in spite of 
himself. 

The visible infection caught even Mr. Headingly, 
who could not help smiling at the pretended Mr. 
Hopkins’s discomfiture. Dr. Hay, hearing the sudden 
commotion, inquired about its cause. 

“The rascal is caught, Doctor ! ” Frank exclaimed. 
“I’ve got his wig in my hand. He’s shaved off his 
beard and whiskers, but I’ll swear to him now among a 
thousand. You had better send for a constable, Mr. 
Headingly, and we’ll give him into custody on a charge 
of felony.” 

At these words MacWraith gave a wild shriek. He 
fell upon his knees, and thus dragged himself to where 
Dr. Hay sat, and held up his clasped hands in implora- 
tion. 

“ Mairey ! ” he exclaimed — “ maircy ! For Heaven’s 


316 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


sake, have maircy ! Don’t lock me up ; don’t send me 
to prison. Ah’ve suffered enough as it is.” 

“ Suffered ! ” Dr. Hay replied quietly. “ Do you 
know what I have suffered ? Do you know what I am 
suffering still ? ” 

“It isn’t ma fault,” the wretched man answered. 
“It wa’n’t ma fault. It’s all Reinemann’s fault, and 
he’s got awa scot-free, and he’s got the siller. Ah 
haven’t had a shellin’ of it. Have maircy ! Have 
maircy ! All’ll do anything, but don’t send for a con- 
stable. All’ll go mad, Ah know Ah will ! ” 

He clasped Dr. Hay’s leg with his outstretched arms, 
and buried his face against it, sobbing convulsively. 
Then he started back in a nearly hysterical terror, and 
gnawed at his thumb-nails, glaring in front of him with 
ghastly staring eyes. His face betokened such abject 
fright as few men show except when beneath the 
threatening shadow of death. His teeth rattled, and 
his whole frame shook as in a palsy. 

Unfortunately for the trapped rascal, the kindly heart 
upon which this sight would have had an easy and 
. spontaneous effect was guarded from impression by the 
misfortune which surrounded it with darkness. Dr. 
Hay heard the frightened man’s sobs, but naturally saw 
nothing of his terrible emotion. 

“ You have not only injured me,” said Dr. Hay with 
gentle, quiet voice ; “ that might be easily passed over. 
The worldly things that I am possessed of, value not to 
me the sorrow of a human creature. But you have 
deprived my parish of one of the noblest relics our 
church possesses. And more than that. You did your 
nefarious work in such a way that I myself was not 
held blameless, I do not see at present how, in justice 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 31T 

to myself and to my flock, I can let you go unpun- 
ished.” 

“Don’t say that! Don’t say that, Dr. Hay!” Mac- 
Wraith whined. “ Let me go ! Let me go this once ! ” 

“ What has become of the book ? ” Mr. Headingly 
interposed severely. 

“ I know all about that. I know what, unfortunately 
for myself, it will cost me to get the book back,” the 
Rector replied in MacWraith’s stead. “He has no 
control over that, and can aid us in no way to get it 
back. But you can do one thing, sir,” he continued, 
addressing the discovered trickster: “you can write a 
confession. That may ease your conscience, if you have 
any. And perhaps, in the ^meantime, I may consider 
whether or not I ought to let you go.” 

A sigh of relief escaped from the man’s breast. A 
gleam of hope lit up his frightened face. 

“ Anything,” he gasped — “ anything ! Dectate your- 
self. Anything ! ” 

“Won’t this look like compounding a felony ? ” Frank 
inquired calmly. 

“ No,” Mr. Headlingly replied. “ To obtain a con- 
fession of his crime from a man is not compounding a 
felony. As to letting him go free, that is a matter in 
reference to which I shall have to speak to Dr. Hay 
afterwards.” 

MacWraith’s eyes looked the lawyer up and down. 

“ Sit down there,” Mr. Headlingly said roughly. 
“ And if you know such a thing as a prayer, say it in 
your heart, that Dr. Hay may see his way to treat you 
mercifully. Take that pen ! ” 

The man obeyed tremblingly ; his whole frame quiv- 
ered, and his pen moved involuntarily as it touched the 
paper. 


318 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“ We had better have another witness to this confes- 
sion,” the solicitor suggested, and struck a gong. “ Tell 
Mr. Robinson to step this way,” he said to the lad who 
answered, and a few moments afterwards an elderly 
solicitor’s clerk entered the room. “ I want you to wit- 
ness a document, Mr. Robinson,” Ileadingly said. “And 
now, Dr. Hay, will you dictate, or shall the man write 
of his own accord ? ” 

“ Let him write what is in his heart,” the Rector re- 
plied, “ and I will see whether it will do. I want him 
to state especially, and plainly too, that this miserable 
trick was not accomplished with any connivance of mine. 
You may well look amazed, Mr. Headingly ; but there 
are men in this world, I will not say wicked enough, but 
foolish and uncharitable enough, to let all of us feel the 
bitterness of their tongues.” 

“ Well, sir,” Headingly commanded, “ you have heard 
what Dr. Hay has said. You had better write, and be 
as clear and concise about it as you can.” 

For the next few minutes not a sound was heard in 
that room but a half-stifled cough now and then, and 
the scratching of Mac Wraith’s pen. At last the guilty 
man looked up and handed the document he had written 
to Headingly. 

“ I see you are accustomed to legal forms,” the lawyer 
said smilingly, glancing over the paper, and then pro- 
ceeded to read it aloud. 

“ I, Andrew Mac W raith, do hereby state of my own 
free will that an English Bible on vellum, folio, printed 
in 1568, was confided by the Reverend Doctor Hay to my 
partner, Luitpold Reinemann, and myself, for restora- 
tion. I regret to say that we appropriated this book to 
our own uses, and substituted in its place an imitation, 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


319 


which we enclosed in the old binding, and prepared in 
such a manner that only an expert could discover the 
change. The book was sold by my partner to Messrs. 
Lelande & Co., at Paris, and I am unaware of my former 
partner’s present address.” 

u I suppose this embodies all you require, Dr. Hay ? ” 
Headingly asked. 

“ It seems to me to be sufficient,” the Rector answered. 

The document was signed by Mac Wraith, and wit- 
nessed by all present with the exception of the Doctor. 

“ Well, what is to be done about this man now ? ” the 
solicitor asked. “ Do you intend to let him go unpun- 
ished. That is offering a premium to crime, you know.” 

Mac Wraith’s face all this while was a map of misery. 

Ye’re not goin’ to break your word, gentlemen,” he 
whimpered. “ Ye’re not goin’ to — ” 

“ I have promised you nothing that I know of,” Dr. 
Hay said ; “ but I permitted you 'to hope. The only 
sufferer by this crime will be myself. The parish will 
not lose by it, as I will buy the book back at any price 
as soon as ever I can. As to myself, Heaven knows I 
shall want to be forgiven one day myself. I do not 
want to have it upon my conscience at that terrible mo- 
ment that I refused mercy to a human creature that 
pleaded for it. Let the man go, Mr. Headingly.” 

The change in MacWraith’s face was wondrous. He 
trembled more than before. 

“ Thank ye, sir ! ” he cried. “ Thank ye, sir ! ” 

“ Not so quick, my man,” the lawyer interposed. 
“ You shall leave this place, but it must be in my way. 
I am going to send for a constable to have you arrested. 
It will take my clerk about three minutes to fetch one.” 
He opened the door as he spoke. You know your way 


320 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


out and downstairs. It will be your own fault if the 
constable finds you here when he arrives.” 

The puzzled look which had settled on Mac Wraith’s 
face changed to an expression of intense relief as Mr. 
Headingly concluded. He looked round scaredly for a 
moment, and then rushed out as fast as his trembling 
legs could carry him. 

“ That is the only way to rid London of the rascal,” 
the lawyer said. “ Had I done it. in any other way, he 
would have thought himself free to work in the neigh- 
borhood and prey upon others. He is a clever rogue, 
and can find employment anywhere. You may rely 
upon it he won’t be long before he puts the ocean 
between himself and you, and if America benefits by 
his genius, England won’t be jealous.” 

“ They hang people for felony in some of the States 
over there!” Frank exclaimed; “and some such end 
will befall Mr. Mac Wraith.” 

u Never predict evil, my dear Frank,” Dr. Hay said 
quietly. “Let us hope the man may mend his ways 
and lead a better life. That has weighed with me as 
much as any other reason in persuading me to let him 
go.” 

At the Rector’s request Mr. Headingly forwarded by 
the next post a certified copy of Mac Wraith’s confession 
to Mr. Isaac Stringer. It reached the churchwarden 
while he was still in bed. It was a miserably cold, sleety 
morning, dull and foggy withal, and Mr. Stringer had to 
order a lamp to be placed by his bedside to enable him 
to read the document. 

“Well, I niver!” he exclaimed, when he had perused 
it. “ An’ what does that prove ? Why, that he’s a 
fool instead o’ bein’ a rogue ; an’ when it’s all chalked 


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321 


down clean an’ neat, I don’t know which I’d prefer of 
the two for the shepherd of a Christian flock. Theer 
isn’t a pin’s worth to choose between ’em. That’s my 
hopinion, an’ I don’t care who knows it.” 

The irreconcilable one was not to be reconciled — at 
least, not so easily. 


322 


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CHAPTER XXX. 

The Tuesday of the trial had come. To poor Mary 
it seemed like a day of doom. It was still pitch-dark 
when she and Mrs. Noble left the Marlborough Road, 
after having barely touched their cups of tea. A dense, 
asphyxiating black fog had settled over the Metropolis, 
and had banished the light of day. With that it was 
bitterly cold, and the icy blast of the night had converted 
the pavement — humid with the moisture of the previous 
evening — into sheets of ice. A workman was seen now 
and then hurrying to his employment, rushing out of and 
vanishing again into the gloom like a spectre ; or a ser- 
vant-girl, with a muffler before her face, daring the dan- 
gers of the sidewalk on her morning’s shopping. Flaring 
gaslights in the butchers’ and bakers’ shops looked like 
feeble yellow smears, and the roadway itself was silent, 
untrodden by man or beast. A little further away, in 
the Fulham Road, the voices of men shouting to one 
another could be heard vaguely, like calls in a tempest. 
There was a dull, heavy, indefinable sound in the air, 
caused by the fog itself. 

The kindly tradesman who had introduced Mrs. Noble 
to Mr. Headingly — a sturdy, portly, ruddy-faced, and 
ruddy-bearded John Bull, who carried on a thriving 
butcher’s trade — had promised to accompany Mrs. 
Noble and Mary to the Sessions House. They had been 
told that if they reached the place by nine they might 
have a chance of seeing J oseph, and, perhaps, of speaking 


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328 


a word to him on his way from the prison-vehicle to the 
cells. Mr. Manley, the kindly butcher, knew the ser- 
geant of police on duty, and might secure, perhaps, in 
that way, the favor of an extra word. 

They had been waiting all the morning for a letter 
from Isaac Stringer, but no postman had appeared, and 
they were hoping against hope. They knew that the 
stern-hearted, proud churchwarden would not show his 
face near the place where his son was being tried for 
felony. 

Mary had received a letter from the Rector, telling 
her that he would be in the Sessions House in the course 
of the day. Neither she nor Mrs. Noble knew — and in 
their inexperience how could they guess it ? — that Dr. 
Hay had, in the meantime, paid nearly seventy pounds, 
so that Joseph might be provided with the best obtain- 
able counsel. They had a vague idea that the fifteen 
pounds which they had given Mr. Headingly would be 
insufficient, and they tremblingly awaited a request for 
more money, which they would not have known how to 
meet. Of course, there was her father ; but she would 
no more have dared to ask him for funds, without at 
the same time forwarding the solicitor’s request, than to 
address the Queen in similar petition. Even then she 
knew that her father had ideas of his own about expend- 
iture, and would most likely tell her he had done what 
he intended to, and would do no more. She blamed 
herself bitterly for having consented that Mrs. Noble 
should retain a few pounds. She told herself that she 
might have done without fire, medicine, or even without 
food, for a long time ; and in her confused reasoning she 
thought herself able to undergo a number of privations, 
any one of which would: have injured her seriously. 


324 


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“ I did think of bringing round the trap,” Mr. Manley 
said ; “ but it wouldn’t be no more use than a steam-roller 
or a water-cart this morning. It’s that black that you 
can’t see your nose afore your f,ace, and I think the best 
thing you can do is to wait till the fog clears off.” 

“Oh, Mr. Manley,” Mary pleaded, “I shall miss my 
brother if we wait. I would rather do anything than 
miss him. Surely we can walk. We won’t ask you to 
come, but Mrs. Noble and myself, we can find our 
way.” 

“ Oh, I ain’t a-goin’ to let you ferret through the fog 
by yourselves, not if I knows it,” the sturdy butcher 
replied. “ Bless your pretty eyes ! it ain’t come to that 
yet, my dear. A man ain’t a mouse, and I hain’t one o’ 
them coves as is afeard to show their nose outside of a 
muffler on a foggy morning. Come along, my dear. 
Where you can get along I can find room for my blu- 
chers. A wink and a sneeze and there we hare.” 

The journey, however, was not by any means an easy 
one. They had allowed an hour for reaching the Ses- 
sions House, but it was long after ten o’clock when they 
got there, chilled to the bone, and half blinded by the 
fog, which had become clearer and whiter, but no less 
dense. 

At the entrance to the court-house gray fantastic fig- 
ures, muffled up to the eyes, their features distorted by 
the density of the atmosphere, stood and moved about, 
looking with seemingly dead eyes at the foggy pall. In 
the passages the tramp to and fro of many heavy feet 
echoed on the flags. Men, and women too, shot out of 
the gray haze, loomed for a moment or two like autom- 
atons, and again disappeared. 

Manley fortunately knew the building and its intri- 


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325 


cacies, and guided Mrs. Noble and Mary to a large bare 
room where a great fire burned in the chimney-place at 
one end. Some half-dozen bare wooden benches stood 
about the place, and every seat on these, as well as in 
front of the fire, was occupied by men and women, 
belonging in large proportion to the poorest and most 
wretched classes of the community. Mary’s eyes fell 
upon one gaunt, lean, tattered woman, whose coal-black 
eyes, staring from a white face, bespoke hunger in its 
utmost terrors, and whose rags seemed to fall from her. 
She was suckling a babe, and with her free arm encircled 
two equally white-faced and equally ragged infants of 
some three or four years. To Mary the woman’s eyes 
brought new terrors, and her hand instinctively wan- 
dered towards her pocket, where she had placed some 
silver and coppers to be ready for all emergencies. 

“ Look at that poor woman in the corner, Grannie,” 
Mary whispered ; “ look at her. I’m sure she’s starving 
to death.” And without another word she walked to 
where the creature sat and put a small piece of silver 
in her hand. The woman’s face lighted up in a gro- 
tesque, half-mad grin, and she uttered a faint little 
shriek, followed by small peals of hoarse laughter. She 
picked up her children as if they were bundles of rags, 
and, with her torn boots clapping on the floor, she shuf- 
fled out of the room. 

“You’d ha’ better kept that money, miss,” said a big 
policeman who had witnessed the scene ; “ she’ll buy 
gin with that sixpence, and in half an hour she’ll be as 
drunk as she was yesterday.” 

“ Isn’t the poor woman starving ? ” Mary asked with 
wondering eyes. 

“ Starving ! ” sneered the policeman. “ She wouldn’t 


326 


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eat bread if you was to give it her. She don’t want 
no food. It’s drink she lives on.” 

“But those children, those poor, wretched, starving 
children ! ” said Mary. 

“ Oh, they’ll die, unless she’s locked up and they're 
taken away from her, which is sure to happen sooner or 
later.” 

“Then what is she doing here?” Mary asked 
faintly. 

“ Doing here ? ” the policeman exclaimed ; “ she’s 
always here. If she ain’t being tried herself, it’s some- 
body what belongs to her that’s bein’ tried. It’s her 
husband what’s bein’ tried to-day, and they do say she’s 
in the job too.” 

“ And what did he do ? ” Mary asked. 

“ Sneaked the clothes off a lot of kids and pawned 
them. Nice couple they are ! ” 

Mary looked further round the place. She thought 
she never had seen such a scowling, degenerated lot of 
men and women before. Great hulking fellows with 
square jowls and hang-dog looks conversed in hoarse 
whispers with unwomanly women. Mean-looking crea- 
tures, with the word “ crime ” printed on every feature, 
crept about with their shoulders drawn up high, with 
fearful eyes searching dreaded corners. There was a 
small half-hushed Babel of undertoned talk, with now 
and then a peal of laughter, a ribald oath, or a curse 
sounding shrill and strident in the midst of it. 

And into such a company her brother’s misfortune 
had brought her. Mary shuddered when she thought of 
Joseph. These people were the onhangers on the out- 
skirts of crime. Where would Joseph be dragged to if 
he were condemned? She felt herself turn pale, and 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 327 

such a sinking gnawed at her heart that, for a moment, 
she thought she was going to faint. 

Manley had been looking about the building for a 
place where he could leave his charges while he made 
inquiries, and through the intercession of his friend, the 
sergeant of police, he had received permission to take 
them to the ushers’ room. 

There Mary, much relieved by the change, and Mrs. 
Noble, sat themselves down before the fire while their 
protector went into the court to see what chance there 
was of Joseph’s case coming on soon. A quarter of an 
hour elapsed before he returned. 

“ Mr. Headingly’s there,” he said, “ and Mr. Gregory’s 
there in his wig and gown. The case is the next on the 
list, and the one they’re on now won’t last more than 
half an hour at most.” 

Mary’s heart beat faster at these words. She looked 
about inquiringly. The Rector had promised to be there, 
and Frank. She framed the question in her heart if Mr. 
Manley had seen them, but it died from her memory. 

“ You wait here, my dear. I’ll look in again,” Mr. 
Manley said. “I’ll find a place for you the moment the 
case is called.” 

Another half-hour, and then, she thought, another. 
Her sight was growing fainter, and her head swam just 
a little, when the good-hearted butcher put his head in 
at the door and called : 

“ Come on, my dear. They’ve given that fellow six 
years’ penal servitude. It’s our turn now. Come 
on ! ” 

Mary allowed herself to be taken by the hand, and 
to be led away. She knew that she was being taken into 
a room crowded with people, through whom they had 


328 


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to push their way, but that was all. All round was 
black to her, and when Mr. Manley had put her into a 
seat, where she was wedged in so that she could barely 
stir, she felt her limbs give way beneath her, and she 
would have slipped down from the narrow seat had she 
not made a desperate effort to keep conscious. All was 
confusion ; a sea of heads, a mixed hum of voices. 
Once she thought she heard her brother’s name, and that 
roused her just a trifle. She tried hard to peer through 
the phantasmagoric gloom that shrouded her vision, and 
by and by the scene became a little lighter, and a little 
more distinct to her, and she thought she saw her 
brother’s face beneath some rows of other faces near the 
right-hand end of the room. 

She looked again, and strained her eyes. Yes, that 
was Joseph ; there he was all right enough, but so pale 
and so changed, and as she turned her head a little on 
one side she saw his scarlet jacket, a red speck amongst 
the sombre hues that surrounded it. Behind him a 
couple of policemen, and some men in a uniform she 
did not know, kept watch and guard. Her wits bright- 
ened a little, but there was still a dull pressure on her 
forehead, and she had to look hard before she could dis- 
cover Badger, with his locks as glossy and as oiled as 
ever, but with such a woe-begone face, by her brother’s 
side. 

A little way in front of her there was quite a row of 
gray, curled wigs, and presently one of these bobbed up 
and said something she could not comprehend, and sat 
down again. Then another one followed suit, and 
other gentlemen made short speeches, of none of which 
she understood a word. Presently a man, a detective 
in plain clothes, entered the witness-box, and his voice 


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329 


was clear and strong, and it sounded in that room like a 
bell — a bell of judgment, Mary thought. Every word 
he spoke, every answer he gave, was an accusation of 
Joseph. He stated how he had suspected and watched 
both Badger and Joseph for some time ; how he had 
seen both Badger and Joseph repeatedly in the company 
of one of the men who were actually known to have 
been concerned in the robbery. How, when he arrested 
both Badger and Joseph, he found in their possession 
property which had been stolen from Herndale House 
on the night of the burglary. Mary’s heart sank within 
her, and she thought that if there was much such evi- 
dence Joseph was lost. 

A gentleman in a gray wig rose and asked the man 
some questions, but the detective said nothing that was 
favorable to Joseph. He was followed in the box by 
another man, and then some gentleman gave evidence 
about the jewelry which had been found on her 
brother and Badger. Mary’s sight grew dim again, and 
she had to clasp Mrs. Noble’s hand to prevent herself 
from fainting. The air of the room, although chilly, 
stifled her, and even the strings of her bonnet hurt her 
throat. A dull, humming noise settled itself upon her 
ear. A gentleman in a wig and gown rose and made a 
short speech, in a voice which she liked. She thought, 
half unconsciously, that he spoke of her brother, and, 
listening more attentively, she did hear that he was 
trying to excuse him. That roused her from the inan- 
ition with which she had hitherto unsuccessfully grap- 
pled, and she felt stouter at heart, and more hope- 
ful. 

Then a gentleman got into the box, a tall, handsome 
gentleman, and to Mary’s eyes he looked like a hero of 


330 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


romance, great and noble, when he stated that her 
brother was a good lad, an honest lad, and that he, for 
one, and he was his captain, felt sure that he was in- 
capable of a dishonest action. Mary’s tears started to 
her eyes, and she could have kissed that man’s hands 
there and then. Then another stepped into the box, 
and yet another ; the last one, a big sergeant, with his 
breast all covered with medals, said : “ He’d be hanged 
if he believed Joseph capable of such a thing,” and 
there was a titter in the court, which the ushers hushed 
down immediately ; but the judge himself smiled, and 
was not displeased, so Mary imagined. 

But what a rataplan was there in Mary’s bosom, when 
Frank Boyer entered the box, she did not know from 
whence : he seemed to start up as if by magic. And 
when he deposed that he had known Joseph from baby- 
hood, had seen him grow up, and had never known him 
guilty of a mean or dishonest action, she deemed him 
the loveliest man in the world, and reflected how happy 
Miss Ophelia must be with such a sweetheart. 

Frank had stepped down, and there was a sudden hush 
in the room, a dead silence. Mary, looking for the cause 
of it, saw Dr. Hay being led by Frank to the witness- 
box. Hope again fluttered tumultuously in her heart, 
when she heard that melodious voice raised in her 
brother’s behalf. There could be no mistake, even in 
the mind of the meanest, about the impression made by 
the blind witness’s evidence upon all round. 

Mr. Manley was sitting in front of Mar}^, and Mr. 
Headingly in front of Mr. Manley. She saw the solici- 
tor turn round sharply to her kindly friend. The 
lawyer spoke in a whisper, yet Mary understood every 
syllable. 


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831 


“ The case is safe,” Headingly said. “ Dr. Hay has 
settled them. They’ll not give a verdict against our 
man now.” 

The gentleman in the wig and gown who had spoken 
for Joseph rose again, and Mary wondered how he 
knew her brother so well, and came to like him so much. 
If he had been his friend from early childhood, he could 
not have said more kindly things of Joseph. And how 
beautifully he spoke ! with what eloquence ! Mary 
knew only one man who could approach him in that 
matter-^- Dr. Hay. And as he proceeded, the gentle- 
man’s voice became louder, and Mary felt that he 
looked straight at the jury, and she saw every man 
in the box looking straight at him. And Mary, scan- 
ning their faces, and searching them with eager eyes for 
traces of kindliness, thought that they looked like good 
men who would not find an innocent lad guilty, and 
break his sister’s heart, and bring shame on the old 
father at home. 

Then there was silence again, and another man in a 
wig and gown said something, and yet another, who 
spoke for Badger ; but Mary followed them not. Then 
the judge made a speech, and Mary thought that he was 
not as kind as the gentleman in the wig and gown who 
had spoken for her brother. He said some things that 
were in Joseph’s favor, and others that were against 
him, and Mary thought he might just as well have 
omitted these, and her fears returned. She trembled 
like an aspen leaf when, in the midst of a small con- 
fusion, the jury left their box. Then as she waited, and 
waited, and waited, with aching heart, in that mixed 
hubbub of noises and voices which rose and swelled 
about her, she felt herself growing cold, a choking sen- 


332 


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sation gripped her at the throat, and, on a sudden, all was 
blank and black to her. 

When she awoke to consciousness, she found herself 
in the ushers’ little room, with Mrs. Noble, Mr. Manley, 
Mr. Pleadingly, Dr. Hay, and Frank standing about her, 
and Joseph kiieeling at her feet. 


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333 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

‘♦You surpassed yourself, Mr. Gregory,” Mr. Head' 
ingly said to the famous criminal counsel in the robing* 
room. “ That was the finest appeal to a jury I’ve ever 
heard. You saved that lad from penal servitude, and no 
mistake. That speech will go down to posterity, as it 
deserves to do.” 

“ Don’t you believe it, Headingly,” the barrister re- 
plied. “ The case wasn’t of sufficient importance, to 
start with, and then it was a race between good charac- 
ter and police evidence all along ; and good character 
won, hands down, in a common canter. Egad ! what a 
witness to put before a jury — that blind clergyman ! 
He’d save the greatest rascal that ever was put in a 
dock. As to that lad, he had honesty and stupidity 
written all over his face, and that got him free as much 
as anything else. Can I give you a lift in my cab? 
I’m going to Westminster.” 

While the two lawyers were rattling westward, an- 
other happy party set out in the same direction. 
Grannie Noble and Mary, and the good-natured butcher 
and Joseph, stowed away in a four-wheeler, were making 
their way towards the Marlborough Road, where Dr. Hay 
and Frank had promised to meet them. Mr. Manley, 
with the milk of human kindness brimming over in his 
big heart, shook hands with Joseph regularly once in 
every two minutes. 

“ I’m as pleased as Punch that you’re cornin’ back 


384 


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with us ! ” he would say. “ I’m that pleased, that I 
don’t know how to be more. I always did stick up for 
you; didn’t I, Miss Stringer? Shake hands on it, old 
man. And when we get down to the Fulham Road, 
we’ll wash it down in a glass of something ; won’t we, 
Mrs. Noble ? It was worth cornin’ through the fog, to 
hear that lawyer chap speak, and that nice blind clergy- 
man. If he had a church anyways near by me, I’d go 
twice every Sunday regular, that I would. Look 
here!” he suddenly burst out; “you come into my 
shop as we come along, and I’ll get the missus to mix 
you something hot to warm the cockles o’ your heart 
this cold day.” 

Mary protested she was anxious to reach the 
Emporium. 

“Well, I do suppose,” the kindly one replied, “as 
you’ve got a word or two to say to your brother arter 
not seein’ him all this while. So I’ll just look in by 
and by, when you’re snug and comfortable. And I’ll 
tell you one thing, lad : If ever you want a friend, you 
call on Dick Manley, and if he don’t turn up trumps 
I’m a Dutchman. Every chap hasn’t got a sister like 
yours, bless her dear little heart! I wish she was my 
daughter, I do. Now you needn’t blush, my dear; it’s 
meant down to the bottom. When Dick Manley says a 
tiling it’s as good as his bond, and they do say in the 
Fulham Road as Dick Manley’s bond’s as good as the 
Bank o’ Hengland.” 

As they were approaching Knightsbridge Joseph 
bethought himself that it was his duty to report himself 
at the barracks. 

“ Surely they can spare you for one more afternoon,” 
Mary pleaded. “ You’ve been away so long. I know 


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385 


that nice gentleman who spoke for you won’t be angry 
if you tell him you’ve been with your sister. They all 
do seem to like you, anyhow.” 

“No, Mary,” Joseph answered; “I’d better report 
myself. As like as not they’ll let me off when I’ve 
done so. I’d better report myself first.” 

“ He’s right,” Manley joined in. “ Quite right. 
Discipline afore everything.” 

Manley was a corporal in the Middlesex Yeomanry 
Cavalry, and as such considered, with greater men than 
himself, that obedience was the private soldier’s first 
duty. 

Arrived at the barrack-gates, Joseph stopped the cab, 
and, disengaging his long legs, jumped out. His arrival 
had evidently been expected and anxiously waited for, 
for quite a crowd of life-guardsmen, in and out of 
uniform, blocked up the gateway, and these, when they 
saw Joseph, raised a ringing cheer. In another moment 
he was in their midst, and there was such hand-shaking 
and shouting, and they all seemed so pleased to see 
him, that Mary came to think that there were no men 
in the world like soldiers for kindliness of heart and 
straightforward knowledge of what is right. She 
clapped her hands in delight when she saw her brother, 
half carried in triumph, borne by the crowd towards 
the inner building amid renewed cheering, which other 
guardsmen at the barrack windows took up and 
answered ; and she could not help asking the cabman 
to stop a little while to see if Joseph would not come 
back immediately. 

“ Oh, they’ll keep him a bit ! ” Manley exclaimed. 
“ Don’t you be afeard for him. They’ll make him snug, 
and he’ll come and see you after dinner. He’s got to 


336 


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get his furlough first of all, and they won’t grudge him 
that. Why,” he suddenly exclaimed, “ as I come to 
think on it, who paid for that there counsel? That Mr. 
Gregory never takes less than fifty guineas a day, I 
know — at least, so I’ve heard plenty o’ people say ; 
and Mr. Headingly never forks any money out of his 
own pocket : he hasn’t got much of it to spare. Pie 
always wants his down on the nail. Somebody must 
have been planking down a tidy sum.” 

“ I only gave him fifteen pounds,” Mary protested. 
“ I had no more to give him, and he never asked for 
more.” A happy idea struck her suddenly. “ I suppose 
it’s father,” she said. “ I suppose it’s dear old father. 
He’s sent the money up without saying a word. That’s 
just like him, that is.” 

“If Isaac Stringer has sent that money up to that 
lawyer in that way, though it is to help his own flesh 
an’ blood, and is his duty to do an’ no more — he what 
rolls in it — I’ll confess that I’ve bin mistook in him all 
my life. But theer ain’t a man less likely to hide his 
light under a bushel than that same Isaac Stringer. 
Don’t you defend him, my dear. He’s your father, an’ 
you’ve a right to stick up for him ; but, thank goodness, 
he ain’t mine.” 

“ But, Grannie, I’m sure he sent up the money. Who 
should pay such a sum for Joseph, if not he?” was 
Mary’s defiant inquiry. 

“Well, I’ll believe it when the lawyer tells me so, 
not afore,” Mrs. Noble replied. “ Don’t you bother 
your head about that, my dear. If your father has 
done one good action, he’ll mek up for it by mekkin’ two 
other pepple miserable.” 

The fog* had nearly altogether cleared away when 


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337 


they reached the Marlborough Road, and the winter sun 
stood, a deep red disc, on a silvery gray sky. It 
seemed to Mary as if light, and life, and hope, and 
sunshine had returned to her after the gloom, and fog, 
and fear of the morning. The sparrows were chattering 
noisily on the bare, snow-covered branches of the tree 
in the back yard, awaiting with open beaks and hungry 
little stomachs their meal of soaked bread, which Mary 
spread for them every morning on the flags at the 
further end of the yard, and which, in her grief of heart, 
she had forgotten that day. 

As neither Mrs. Noble nor Mary would consent, as 
the good butcher had it, “ to wash down the morning’s 
business in something ’ot,” he insisted, and would not 
be denied, in furnishing the joint for the dinner. 

“Now, drat it all, Mrs. Noble!” he exclaimed, “you 
ain’t goin’ to do me out of my own private little bit o’ 
henjoyment. If you won’t drink Joseph’s health, you 
shall eat it, an’ it’s no use your say in’ no, cos I won’t 
take no, that’s flat.” 

As the result of this friendly controversy, a tempt- 
ing piece of sirloin was twisting and turning on the bit 
of string before Grannie Noble’s back-parlor fire, care- 
fully attended to by Mary, when Joseph burst in upon 
the little household in a state of high glee. His com- 
rades had all been more than kind to him, and his cap- 
tain had given him a week’s leave of absence — “ to 
shake off the prison smell,” he had said. 

“They didn’t mean unkindly,” Joseph said. “They 
had made up a small purse to help me to get a lawyer, 
and they found out that somebody had paid for every- 
thing. I must ask Mr. Headingly who it is, that I may 
thank him from the bottom of my heart.” * 


338 


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“ Why, Joseph, who can it be but father?” Mary ex- 
claimed. “He sent twenty pounds to me here. I’m 
sure it’s father ; who else can it be ? ” 

“Well, I’d like to think it’s father,” Joseph replied, 
scratching his head. “ I really should like to think it 
was father. I ain’t got no grudge against th’ ode man, 
though he did make it hard to me to think of him as a 
son ought to.” 

“Children should never speak against their parents,” 
said a clear voice, and as they looked up, Dr. Hay stood 
there in the doorway, and Frank. The Rector felt his 
way with outstretched hands to where Joseph was sit- 
ting. “ I’m glad,” he said, “ that you have been able 
to prove your innocence, Joseph Stringer — glad for 
all our sakes as well as yours. And I am especially 
glad that you have been able to do it for your father’s 
sake. He’s been very ill lately, and he cannot get about 
yet, else, I am sure, he would have been near you to- 
day. Squire Boyer and I have had a long talk about 
him. The Squire says, and I believe it, that he is pin- 
ing to get you both back again, only he’s too proud and 
too obstinate to confess it. I am quite sure that, if you 
were to enter his door at this minute, there would be no 
happier man in Thorbury than your father.” 

Mary had crept up to the Rector’s side. 

“Do you really think that he misses us? ” she asked. 
“ Do you really think that I ought to go back ? ” 

“ Of course you ought, my dear,” the Rector replied. 
“We’ll all go down together, you, and Mrs. Noble, and 
Joseph, and Frank, and I. We’ll make your father 
feel kindly towards you and all the world, that I 
promise you.” 

“Yes,” Grannie Noble interrupted, “and he’ll bully 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


889 


her poor life out afore she’s a day in the house, and 
he’ll drive poor Joseph among strangers agin, even if 
he can he bought off. He’s one o’ them as you can’t 
change, if you was to scrub him forever.” 

“ Now, my dear Mrs. Noble, I won’t have you say 
anything of the kind,” the Rector remonstrated. “ Mr. 
Stringer is not one of my particular friends ; but I have 
made up my mind to do my duty in this matter, as he 
himself would say, and, therefore, to-morrow morning, 
if you please, we will go down to Thorbury by the first 
train. It leaves Euston at nine-thirty. You are not 
doing a roaring trade, I surmise, and can leave the Em- 
porium to take care of itself for a week. We can 
manage to put you up somewhere in the Rectory.” 

Grannie Noble protested for a long while. Mary 
had thoroughly twined herself round the old woman’s 
heart, and the dear creature was aghast at the thought 
of losing her, and having to live without her. Dr. 
Hay, however, was firm. His persuasions carried the 
day. 

“ Don’t you think we ought to telegraph to father ? ” 
Mary inquired timidly. “■ He will be anxious.” 

“ That has been done hours ago,” the Rector replied. 
“ Frank telegraphed in my name to Mrs. Hay from the 
Sessions House, and I have asked her to send the tele- 
gram to your father.” 

Then came the question of the expenses of the jour- 
ney, and Mary’s heart beat fast as she thought that her 
whole fortune consisted of about ten shillings; but 
Joseph produced quite a little handful of silver, his back 
pay, which had been given to him with his leave of ab- 
sence, and she felt a little easier in her mind. 

It was a long time since the Emporium had seen such 


340 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


bright and happy faces as on that afternoon. Manley 
came in, and with his cheery John-Bull humor kept 
even Grannie Noble in a roar. 

“ I’m sorry, my boy,” the old woman said to Joseph, 
“ that you’ve had to go through all this ; but I’m glad 
because it’s brought one thing about. They’ve given 
that scrubby little thief, Badger, two years’ hard 
labor, and they’ll cut that smeary hair of his clean off. 
Won’t he look a sight ! It’ll be a long time afore he’ll 
mek a respectable girl think as highly of him as our 
Mary did.” 

Mary shuddered silently. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


341 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

When the Monday before the trial came, Stringer had 
so far improved that he was able to wrap himself \up in 
his coat and mufflers, and crawl out into the street. It 
was a fine and bright winter day, with the sunlight 
dancing on the snowy ground, and a brisk air was 
abroad. Stringer, walking at a snail’s pace, was- still 
compelled to stop at every few steps. His usually florid 
face had gone pale, his hands had grown white and flabby, 
and he paused for a moment to protect them by the 
bear-skin gloves which he carried in his pocket. 

There was one thought which pervaded his mind : his 
son was going to be tried the next day for felony. 
Joseph had not been a dutiful lad; but he knew him to 
be incapable of dishonesty, and so did every man and 
woman in the village of Thorbury. 

He was too ill to go up to London and to speak for 
Joseph himself; besides that, a Father’s evidence would 
have very little weight, even if it were accepted at all ; 
but there were plenty of people in the village who, he 
felt sure, would not mind undertaking the journey to 
London to speak for Joseph, for his — Stringer’s — sake. 
Somehow the idea of the importance of a good character 
had settled itself firmly in his mind, and with the obsti- 
nacy which was so important a factor in his character, 
lie clung to it immediately. He would find somebody 
to go up to London to speak for Joseph. 

Stringer’s most influential and stanchest partisan was 


842 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


Samuel Wilson, a Midland bull-dog, like the doughty 
churchwarden, who owned some flour-mills of consider- 
able importance near Stringer’s end of the village. 
Wilson was a widower with an only child, a daughter, 
and' the two men had often hinted to one another, over 
their glasses of toddy, that a union between Joseph 
Stringer and Susannah Wilson would not be displeasing 
to either. The two young people had never exercised 
any particular attraction upon one another, but the two 
fathers thought that in time that would arrange itself. 

When Joseph left his father’s house and went to 
London to enlist, Samuel Wilson rated Stringer soundly 
for having, as he told him to his face, driven his son 
away by unkind treatment ; and he was so energetic in 
Joseph’s defence that quite a coolness, which, however, 
soon blew over, sprang up between Stringer and him. 

Towards Samuel Wilson’s office Isaac Stringer crept 
that morning. He was weak, he was ill, and he was 
sick at heart. Samuel Wilson, he felt certain, would 
go up to London, if he asked him. 

The miller’s office was situated at the back of a big 
flagged court, which was approached through a wide 
archway, and Stringer had to pick his way among carts, 
and wagons, and sacks, and barrels, to reach it. Samuef 
Wilson was standing by the open door, and greeted him 
cheerily, placing a big wooden armchair near the fire for 
him. 

“ Some time since I seen thee, Isaac Stringer,” the 
miller exclaimed, “and I’m rare an’ glad to find thee 
about again. Rest thee a bit — theer,” he added, seeing 
his friend quite out of breath. 

Stringer was comforted in finding a seat placed ready 
for him. His strength had been nigh on failing. The 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


343 


fresh air had done him good and had fatigued him at 
the same time. 

“ I’m all right, Samuel,” he said. “ I’ll be all right 
in a minnit. I’ve got summat to say to you. I want 
you to do something for me — a service.” 

At this intimation Wilson’s face sank just a little. 
He had received many favors at the churchwarden’s 
hands, but the man’s character was intensely selfish, and 
he dreaded the thought of having, in his turn, to do 
something which might be the cause of expenditure. 
He was quite ready to support Isaac Stringer by his 
loudly expressed opinion, or by his personal influence ; 
but to put his hands into his pockets, or to make him a 
present of his time, was quite another matter, and would 
have proved exceedingly distasteful and objectionable. 

“ A service, Isaac ? ” he half stammered. 

He reconciled himself with the reflection that Stringer 
was a rich man, and could not possibly have come for a 
loan. As that thought revolved rapidly in his mind he 
became reassured. 

“ A service ! ” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Certainly. 
Anything you like, Isaac. What can I do for you ? ” 

“ My boy will be tried in London to-morrow,” Stringer 
said slowly and quietly, “ for that which he never did. 
They say he’s a thief, and I know, and you know, 
Samuel, that he isn’t. Now, I want you to go up to 
London, and to go to the Sessions House to-morrow, and 
to say what you know about Joseph, and what you’ve 
known about him ever since he was as high as my 
knee.” 

Mr. Samuel Wilson was taken thoroughly aback by 
that request. He liked Joseph well enough, and he 
knew that he would only be speaking the truth if he 


344 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


gave him the best possible character. The lad’s liberty 
and honest name were in danger, and with them the 
reputation of his father, his old friend. 

“I — I — I don’t,” he muttered. 

Stringer interrupted him. 

“ I know what thee art thinkin’ about, Samuel,” he 
said stolidly. “ I’ll provide for that. I’ll pay thee thy 
fare to London and back — second-class if you like. I 
don’t mind goin’ to that expense to get a real friend to 
speak a word for Joseph.” 

Samuel Wilson was a quick-witted man. He had a 
habit of easy calculation, and he rapidly jotted down on 
the mental slate that he would have to expend at least 
ten shillings beside his fare if he went up to London. 
He did not dare to ask Stringer for that half-sovereign. 
Beside that, there was a loss of a whole day to his 
business, and nobody could know what might occur in 
one day. He had a habit of deciding quickly, and he 
made up his mind not to go. But the excuse! What 
excuse could he offer? Another moment’s reflection, 
and one presented itself. 

“ When did you say, Isaac, that you want me to go 
to London?” he asked. 

“I want you to be theer to-morrow morning,” Stringer 
replied. 

“ Dear, dear, that is unfortunate ! ” the miller ex- 
claimed. 

Stringer raised himself in his chair. 

“ Hunfortunit, Samuel? Why?” 

“ It is unfortunate,” the other rejoined ; “ most unfor- 
tunate. I should ha’ been glad to go, hanxious to go ; 
not only for thy sek, but for Joseph’s, for I like the lad.” 

“Why can’t you go?” Stringer asked with open 
eyes. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


345 


“ Because I’ve got to be in Brum to-morrow about 
that mortgage dispute o’ Waghorn’s. It means two 
thousand pound to me. Lawyer Selby made the 
appointment a week ago, and it’s too late to put it off 
now.” 

“ You can write an’ put it off,” Stringer suggested. 
“ I never hasked you to do a thing for me yet, an’ I 
come nigh on thinkin’ I was wrong to hask you now.” 

“ Don’t think that, Isaac,” the miller pleaded. “ I do 
hope you won’t think that. Theer ain’t a man in this 
parish I’d rather do a service for than thee.” 

Stringer was weak and irritable; his nerves were 
highly strung, and he felt that he was losing his 
equanimity of temper. 

“ You can put it off if you like, Samuel,” he said, 
“and you can go to London, an’ if you don’t put it off, 
an’ if you don’t go to London, it’s because you don’t 
like.” 

“ Oh dear, oh dear ! ” the miller exclaimed ; “ that’s 
always the way with you. If a man don’t do exactly 
what you want he’s bound to do it o’ purpose. I do 
give you my word.” 

“ Don’t do that,” Stringer cried in a weak rage. “ It 
ain’t worth while. I’d be a man or I’d be a mouse. 
You can tek it as I ain’t said nothing to thee, Samuel 
Wilson, an’ as I ain’t hasked thee nothin’ ! ” 

With that he pulled his mufflers over his ears and 
crawled out of the office with a face as white as death. 
The miller attempted to detain him and to mutter a 
word of excuse, but the churchwarden waved him off in 
a silent rage. 

He was in trouble. For the first time in his life he 
had asked the assistance of a friend, and had been 


346 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


refused. He staggered as he crept along with one hand 
against the fronts of the houses. It was a shame to 
irritate him so when he was so weak. He reached his 
own door, and, entering the parlor, sat himself down 
with his hat on his head and his gloves on his hands. 

Surely he had some friend among the men of position 
in the village who would go up to London and give 
Joseph a character. He turned their names over in his 
mind. There was Daniel Sowerby, a retired gentleman 
farmer, and Nicholas Davey, who had a big interest in 
some coal-mines in Staffordshire. 

Davey had ranged himself on Stringer’s side from 
the very moment the churchwarden had taken up his 
position against the Rector, and had often declared that 
the parish was deeply indebted to Isaac Stringer. 

Davey lived in a small, quaint old house, which stood 
in its own grounds, a short distance from the Fox and 
Dogs, and Stringer, after having rested himself for a 
short while, went out again into the street with a heavy 
heart. His progress to Nicholas Davey’s house was 
slow and painful. He thought he would never get 
there. Mrs. Davey met him at her door, and received 
him with kindness and attention. But Davey was away 
somewhere in the north, and had been away for more 
than a week. Stringer left without stating the object 
of his visit, and crawled on to Sowerby’s place, a little 
further down the road. 

There he found himself face to face with a similar 
mischance. Sowerby was in Castle Barfield, and would 
no 4 t return till very late at night, perhaps not at all. 

These repeated disappointments wore the man out, 
and he had barely strength enough left to turn, to creep 
back to his house. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


347 


As he reached the corner where the road to the rail- 
way turned off, a dog-cart, driven by the Squire, dashed 
by him, carrying, besides Marmaduke Boyer, the Rector 
and Frank. Stringer watched them driving down the 
long straight road, and when they were lost to sight he 
turned to proceed on his weary way homewards. As 
he looked round he saw that no less a person than 
Habakkuk Wood was standing by his side — like him- 
self, looking after the disappearing vehicle. At any 
other time he would have snapped Habakkuk’s head off, 
but now he was so weak and so ill, he thought a snake 
might have crawled about him with impunit} r . 

The reader is aware of Habakkuk’s disposition to- 
wards Stringer ; but the sexton was not an unkindly 
man, and the sight of the churchwarden, pale and 
shivering, a mere shadow of his former self, made a 
strong impression upon him. 

“ I’m glad to see you better, Isaac Stringer,” he said 
quietly. “ Thee art no friend o’ mine ; but I wish no 
ill to no man, an’ you’ve had enough to last you for a 
while.” . 

Stringer looked him up and down with heartsore 
amazement. 

“ Thee dost not wish me ill, Habakkuk ! ” he said. 
“Well, I believe thee, and wish thee none. You’ve 
said many wicked things, but you’ve never stooped to a 
lie, or to curry favor, and perhaps, after all, a fair 
enemy’s better than a false friend.” 

“ I don’t want to be no enemy o’ thine,” Habakkuk 
answered. “ If thee couldst only get reason into that 
big head o’ thine, an’ less spitefulness onto thy tongue.” 

“Hear, hear!” Stringer exclaimed in a bored voice. 
“ Theer’s a pair on us. Let’s shake hands.” 


848 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


This remark made Mister Habakkuk smile. 

“ Thee’ll never change, Isaac Stringer,” he said. “Ill 
or well, you’re just the same. You’d quarrel with your 
brother, an’ your father an’ your mother, as you did with 
your son an’ your daughter. You never know when a 
man’s a friend o’ thine an’ when he isn’t, an’ a fine lot 
o’ friends you’ve got, I dare be sworn. Is theer one of 
’em as has lifted a finger for your Joseph now he’s in 
trouble ? ” 

The shaft went straight home, and the poor man 
staggered under it. He clutched at his muffler as if he 
were choking. 

“ Is theer one of ’em as would do what the Rector’s 
a-doin’ now ? ” Habakkuk continued unheeding^. “Is 
theer one of ’em as would go up to London in this 
winter weather, a-spendin’ of his money an’ his time, to 
speak up for your Joseph, as he’s a-doin’ now ? ” 

Stringer’s sight suddenly became treacherous. Every- 
thing round was gray to him, and little red spots and 
specks danced about in a cold, bluish halo before his 
eyes. A lump rose to his throat and half choked him, 
and he had to shake himself and to clutch Habakkuk’s 
arm to prevent himself from falling. With an effort he 
forced open his drooping eyelids and discovered that he 
was looking at everything as through a rain-bespattered 
glass. He attempted to speak, and found that for a 
moment or two he could not. 

“ The Rector ? ” he asked, when he recovered his 
power of speech at last. “ The Rector, you said ? He’s 
goin’ up to London to speak up for Joseph ? ” 

“That he is,” Habakkuk replied. “Not as you de- 
served it : oh, dear, no ! But he ain’t one o’ them as 
wants the childern to suffer for the sins o’ their fathers. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


349 


He's gone up, an’ he’ll be theer to-morrow, you may 
tek your hoath.” 

“ The Rector’s gone up to London o’ purpose to speak 
for my Joseph? ” Stringer insisted hoarsely. “You’re 
sure o’ that, Habakkuk ? Quite sure ? But he’s blind ; 
how can he do it ? ” 

“ Mr. Frank’s goin’ up with him to tek him about,” 
the sexton replied. “You go an’ turn that over in your 
mind, Isaac Stringer, an’ think o’ what you’ve bin doin’ 
to that man, an’ what you’ve bin a-sayin’ agin him ” — 

Stringer leaned panting against the wall for support. 
There was such a pitiful expression in his face, akin to 
that of a man who is pleading for mercy. Habakkuk, 
after looking at him for a moment doubtfully, continued : 

“Yes, think what you’ve bin sayin’ agin him, an’ 
what he’s suffered through thee a-sayin’ it. An’ then 
get it into that thick head o’ thine that, at this instant 
minnit, he an’ Mister Frank’s the only two men that’s 
stirrin’ a hand or a foot to help thy boy, an’ that’s 
a-helpin’ thee, I reckon. An’ more than that. I know 
that the Rector’s as poor as poor can be for a reverend 
gentleman like he, an’ I do know it as he’s sent nigh on 
seventy pound out of his own pocket up to London to 
get big lawyers to defend thy Joseph, an’ he niver said 
nothin’ about it to thee, nor no man, nor would, if it 
weren’t known through other folk.” 

Habakkuk saw that Stringer had grasped a low win- 
dow-sill with both hands, and was holding on to it to 
prevent himself from falling. 

“ Thee’rt ill,” the sexton said. “ Come, let me tek 
thee home.” 

Stringer looked at him with unconsciously staring eyes, 
and allowed himself to be led away like a child. 


350 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“Nigh on seventy pound. Nigh on seventy pound. 
Nigh on seventy pound,” he babbled as he walked 
along. “He paid it an’ niver said nothin.’ Nigh on 
seventy pound. Nigh on seventy pound. Nigh on 
seventy pound. And he’s gone up to speak for Joseph. 
He’s gone up to speak for Joseph.” 

Then he became suddenly silent, and walked with one 
hand in Habakkuk’s, as schoolboys might. The sexton 
noticed that a shiver crept over Stringer, and that he 
wriggled underneath his coat and his mufflers as in a cold 
chill. The two crawled along* and the rare passers-by 
wondered to see Isaac Stringer and Habakkuk Wood 
walking along the village street hand in hand. Boys 
stared at them with droll amazement, and raced off to 
spread abroad the wondrous news that the churchwarden 
and sexton were friends again. 

At the door of his house Stringer stopped. 

“Habakkuk Wood,” he said, “I’ve bin sayin’ a lot o’ 
things agin thee, an’ I’ve been doin’ a lot o’ things agin 
thee, as I’m sorry for. I can’t say no more ; I ain’t well 
enough. But if I was to talk for a week I couldn’t feel 
it bigger here.” 

“ I don’t want to be no man’s henemy, Isaac Stringer,” 
Habakkuk replied, “ an’ I don’t want to be thine. I’m 
gettin’ oldish on my pins, an’ it won’t be many year 
afore they’ll want another sexton in this parish, an’ if I 
can, I’d be glad to live in peace with my neighbors. 
Here’s my hand on it, Isaac Stringer. Thee hast said 
thee art sorry, an’ no man can say more.” 

All through that afternoon, and all through that even- 
ing, one phrase kept dinning through Stringer’s head : 
“ He’s gone up to speak for my boy ! He’s gone up to 
speak for my boy ! He’s gone up to speak for my boy ! ” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


351 


Psychology has left undefined the subtle methods of 
reasoning by which a man who hates another can, on a 
sudden, be brought to like him. The senses remain the 
same. The effect of sight and hearing is the same, and 
yet it has been known that a woman has fallen in love 
with a man whom, but a short time previously, she con- 
sidered downright ugly. Less than twelve hours ago 
the Rector could not do any act which was not immedi- 
ately explained to his disadvantage by Stringer, and now 
the churchwarden sat in his room, wondering and pon- 
dering how he could have so long and so terribly mis- 
understood so good a man. His heart ached that he was 
not able there and then to go to him and ask his for- 
giveness. 

As the afternoon advanced, and he felt better again, 
he strolled out once more, and walked towards the Rec- 
tory in the hope of meeting either Mrs. Hay or Ophelia. 
He came across neither of the ladies, however, and he 
was tired a long distance from the church, and had to 
turn back. When he got home again he spoke so kindly 
to Susan that the old woman could not make him out at 
all, and he went to bed with a lighter heart, in spite of 
his trouble, than he had done for many a day. He slept 
soundly, and well he might, for he had thrown off as 
heavy a load as ever weighed upon a man — his hatred 
and his uncharitableness. 


352 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Tuesday morning which was so foggy and mis- 
erable in London dawned at Thorbury bright, brisk, and 
cheerful. As Stringer looked out of his window, he 
espied in the field beyond his garden quite a colony of 
rooks fluttering and pecking, and he followed their 
movements listlessly, with an amused self-possession. 
He remembered that there had been a trouble on his 
mind when he went to bed, and that that trouble related 
to Joseph, but in his half-drowsy, half- waking state he 
rubbed his eyes, and could not for the life of him re- 
member exactly what it was. Bit by bit, as he yawned 
and stretched himself, his thoughts travelled back to 
actualities, and he remembered that this was the day on 
which J oseph was to be tried. Strange, it did not seem 
to trouble him — at least, not much. 

“ The Rector will be theer,” he said to himself ; “ so 
will Mister Frank. They’ll get Joseph off all right.” 

He repeated that sentence to himself until it became 
a sort of cabalistic formula to him, to dispel his fears 
whenever they approached. 

He arose cheerfully, and new life and vigor seemed to 
have been instilled into his frame. He walked more 
easily and much more firmly ; the semi-senile nervous 
tremor had left him, and he quite enjoyed his frugal 
breakfast of tea and plain toast. Then he sat himself 
down by the window and looked out into the street, 
counting the minutes, wondering how early in the day 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


353 


his son’s case would come on, and whether or not he 
would learn the result that same day. Yet he had no 
fear about the upshot of it. 

“ The Rector’s theer,” he muttered to himself when- 
ever a doubt forced its poignant shaft upon him. “ The 
Rector’s theer, an’ he’s paid great lawyers to speak up 
for Joseph. I’ve got to pay him back, an’ that I will 
gladly. It’s very good of him, that it is ; but no man 
shall say that Isaac Stringer is in his debt for as much 
as a silver sixpence.” 

The morning passed at a snail’s pace, and its slow, 
dragging reflection brought its sharpened goads upon 
Stringer’s conscience. The scene at the fire of the 

O 

church passed before his mind. He remembered the 
Rector as he walked, with head erect and a face of dig- 
nity, into that roaring furnace. He was bound to con- 
fess to himself that his accusation of that moment had 
been wicked and unwarrantable ; but, although subse- 
quent events had proved it to be so, he had not until 
this morning been able to see his conduct in that fear- 
ful light. 

He had wronged the Rector, and the Rector had re- 
turned good for evil. He had hated the Rector with the 
obstinate hatred which an unreasoning disposition and 
an unbendable tenacity could engender, and now, hav- 
ing suddenly and surprisedly discovered that he was 
wrong, he liked the man as unreasoningly and as un- 
reasonably as, before that, he had hated him, and was 
like to be just as unbendable and as obstinate in his 
friendship as he had been in his hatred. But there was 
that about the man which commanded respect. He had 
no sooner discovered his error than he acknowledged it 
to himself, and was ready and eager to acknowledge it 


354 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


to all the world. As Grannie Noble had said, his good 
qualities were so deep down in his nature that one had 
to take a pickaxe to dig them out ; but, once brought 
to the surface, they asserted themselves, like every other 
trait of the man’s character, stubbornly and demon- 
stratively. 

His midday meal, consisting of a grilled chop and 
a boiled potato, was brought to him, and he quite en- 
joyed the small portion of it which he ate. As the after- 
noon wore on, he became just a trifle fidgety, but his 
faith in the Rector’s ability to get his son set free never 
diminished. He relied upon him with a nearly childlike 
confidence which he could not possibly have explained 
or justified. 

“ They’re sure to telegraph when the case is over,” 
he said to himself. “ They won’t leave me in this state 
without lettin’ me know.” 

Thus he waited in tranquil assurance that ere long 
the news would come to him that Joseph was free. 

From where Stringer sat he had a view of the village 
street nearly three hundred yards ahead in the direction 
of the Rectory. He scanned the perspective in front of 
him in the eager hope of seeing the messenger of good 
tidings speeding towards his house. He felt sure the 
news would be good. How could it be otherwise, with 
the Rector in London to look after Joseph ? 

He sat there counting the hours on his watch, but 
never getting impatient. Three o’clock was past when 
he saw one of the Rector’s servants running at top speed 
in the direction of his (Stringer’s) house. The man 
carried a paper of some sort in his hand, and Stringer 
noticed that, as he passed the little haberdasher’s shop 
some distance down the road, he waved it as if in 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE, 355 

triumph to the man standing at the door, and the shop- 
keeper clapped his hands in seeming delight. 

“ It’s the message that Joseph is free,” Stringer said 
to himself in glad assurance. “ It’s the message that 
J oseph is free, I know ! ” 

He walked to his door and opened it, and stood 
waiting for the man as he raced up, waving the tele- 
gram. 

“Joseph’s got off,” the man cried, even before he 
reached Stringer’s door ; “ and Mrs. Hay sends you 
this to let you know it’s so ! ” 

Stringer took the telegram from the man’s hand, and 
read it tremblingly. 

“ Tell Mrs. Hay,” he said, when he looked up again, 
“ that Isaac Stringer is greatly beholden to her, and to 
the Rector — greatly beholden, and grateful” — 

He turned and entered the house, and shut the door, 
so that the servant might not be a witness of his 
emotion. 

He kept that telegram in his hand, staring into the 
parlor fire all the while. Such a load off his mind : 
his good name safe and untarnished, and he able to hold 
his head as high as ever. And as he used to reason, in 
his unreasonableness, that the Rector was the cause of 
each and every ill that befell him, so he argued now, in 
his changed mind, that he owed this deliverance from 
the sting of shame — this averted finger of scorn — to 
Dr. Hay. He was the fountain whence all this new- 
born blessedness sprang, and no man ever blushed more, 
as he traced back the events of his immediate past, than 
Isaac Stringer that afternoon. 

He would be friends again with the Squire, and he 
would be friends with the Rector. He would live at 


356 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


peace with the world, and while Christian principles 
were being promulgated in God’s church, he would not 
interfere even if hymns. of praise were sung by a choir 
dressed in Papish bedgowns. 

Another desire — a craving — leaped to his heart, and 
grappled with his soul. He wanted Mary to come back 
to him, to make home homelike again, and to bring 
back his sunshine with the light of her smiles. 

He looked round the room, and even in the midst of 
the excitement of the moment he felt that her fairy 
presence was needed to make him content. He could 
live without Joseph, though, after what had happened, 
he would prefer that Joseph should live at home again. 
But Mary was as necessary to him as the light of day, as 
his food and as his drink, and he vowed that, if his child 
would not return of her own accord, he, who had never 
begged for aught, would go to her and implore her to 
live with him again. 

During the night that followed, he dreamed a glad 
dream. Christmas had come again, with its holly and 
its mistletoe, and he was sitting at his own Christmas 
board, and his children were about him — Joseph and 
Mary both. The son — whom he had learned to love, 
because he was as proud, as manly, and as unyielding as 
himself ; a true chip of the old block ; honest, straight- 
forward, and stubborn ; like faults, like virtues, father 
and son — and his daughter in her blooming maiden- 
hood, tender, simple, loving, and true, as a good English 
girl ought to be. And he was so happy with them, and 
they were so happy with him, and he thanked his God 
that on that Christmas Day he was at enmity with no 
man, and that no man was at enmity with him. 

When the village doctor called the next morning, he 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 357 

found Stringer so much better that he wondered at the 
sudden improvement. 

“ We’ll soon have you as jolly and as busy as ever,” 
he said. “ You will be able to blow up people as 
roundly as ever you did.” 

“ Niver you mind that, doctor,” Stringer replied. “You 
tell me whether I’m strong enough to go to London.” 

“ Well, we’re not going so fast as that,” the rural 
medico answered. “ We must learn to walk before we 
can leap.” 

“ And how long will it be afore I can leap as fur as 
London ? ” Stringer insisted. 

“ Maybe a week. Maybe a little more,” was the 
physician’s reply. 

A week to wait — a week, at least, before he could go 
to London and ask Mary to come back again. He might 
write, it was true ; but he did not feel so sure of the 
effect of a letter as of his personal request. Grannie 
Noble might dissuade her. Grannie Noble did not like 
him, and, as he came to think of it, he had given her 
reason not to be fond of him. 

It was a bother that he would have to wait a week, 
but he preferred to wait, rather than risk a letter. A 
week was not such a very long time, after all, and he 
would be patient. He walked up and down his room in 
the pleasant excitement of the prospect of seeing his 
Mary again before eight or ten days were over his head. 
He would get well, and quickly ; those doctors were al- 
ways too cautious. He felt sure he would be well 
enough in three or four days to go up to London. He 
squared his shoulders and pushed out his chest in de- 
fiant assertion of his rapid recovery. In three or four 
days ? Why, in two days, most likely, he would be well 
enough. 


358 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


Susan, coming into the room to look after the fire, 
was amazed to see her master smiling his proudest, and 
parading up and down the room like a soldier on the 
drill-ground, firmly and measuredly. The old woman 
had seen him in so many different moods, that this new 
phase of temperament puzzled her a trifle, but did not 
weigh heavily with her. It was better for her peace of 
mind that her master should be in a pleasant temper, 
foolish though it might be to her eyes, than that his 
former irascibility should bring back a fit of bullying. 

The afternoon was well advanced, and Stringer was 
still engaged in his march up and down the parlor, 
when a most Unusual noise burst upon his ear from the 
street. It sounded as if a riot had broken loose in the 
usually so quiet village. Men were shouting, and 
cheering, and yelling, and never, except at election 
times, had Stringer heard such a prodigious hubbub in 
Thorbury. He went to his door again, opened it, and 
stood on the steps. 

Away down the street, just where the road to the 
railway turned off, there was a big crowd. There was 
a wagonette in the centre of it, and on it, Stringer 
thought, were Frank Boyer and the Rector. Some 
ladies were sitting behind them, but he could not see 
who they were. The wagonette was coming towards 
him at a walking pace, and the crowd was moving with 
it — men and women, boys and girls ; and they shouted 
enough to make the bells of Thorbury Church ring 
again. For the life of him, Stringer could not guess 
what it all meant. The Rector had returned, that he 
could see; but why this unusual popular demonstration? 

As they got a little nearer he espied in the crowd a 
bright red spot, which burst upon him as some man 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


359 


moved casually from one side to the other ; and, as he 
strained his eyes, he saw a soldier’s uniform. It was 
Joseph, his Joseph, they were escorting as in triumph 
to his father’s home — Joseph returned to him. A 
feverish sensation crept over him, a touch of hope so 
fierce that he turned sick and faint at the thought of a 
possible disappointment. If Joseph came back, where 
was Mary ? Surely she would not stay behind if his 
son returned. 

The procession came nearer, moving as noisily as 
before, but he dared not look. If Mary was not there, 
he would not know what to do, and yet he hardly dared 
believe that she was so near. His head swam, and he 
groped his way back to the parlor, and sat himself down 
there. The shouting and cheering drew nearer and 
nearer, and he could hear the tramping of many feet, 
and the shrill cries of the children as they swarmed 
ahead of the crowd, right up to his doorstep, calling, 
“ Mr. Stringer ! Mr. Stringer ! ” 

Yet he dared not look. He sat with his hands to his 
heart, as though dreading that it would stop. His 
breath was failing him, and he fancied that if many 
more minutes passed without his hope being realized he 
would not live beyond them. 

He could hear the footfalls of the noisy crowd on the 
round stones of the sidewalk. He could hear the 
grating of the wheels as the wagonette stopped at his 
own door. He could hear the men shout, cheering the 
Rector, cheering Frank, cheering Joseph, and his own 
name was not forgotten. He heard the little swish of 
his front door as it was opened, and the steps of men 
and women who entered his house. Then the lock of 
his parlor-door clicked, and a multitude, as he thought, 


860 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


came into the room ; but yet he dared not look till a 
soft, sweet voice, which he knew so well, whispered 
right close to him, “ Father,” and he raised his eyes, 
and opened his arms, and clasped his Mary to his 
breast. 

A moment afterwards he was laughing and crying at 
the same time, and he was shaking hands with every- 
body, and everybody shaking hands with him, and if he 
had been a child again he could not have been more 
happy. There was his Mary. He had pulled her down 
by his side, and she sat on the arm of his chair quite 
close to him, and the world had not had such pleasure 
for him this many a day. And there was his son, the 
son whom he had allowed to depart without a friendly 
word, and whom he was right pleased to see again at 
home. Even Grannie Noble looked kindly and moth- 
erly to him, and he held out his hand to her and 
thanked her for having taken care of his child. And 
then, as he looked beyond those immediately in front 
of him, he saw the Rector and Frank — the Rector with 
his white, white hair and his closed eyes. 

He rose slowly, tremblingly. He pushed even his 
child aside. He walked to where the Rector stood and 
looked straight into that blind face. Stood and looked, 
stood and looked, without being able to utter a 
word. 

The Rector, who seemed instinctively to feel that 
somebody was near him, put out a searching hand. 
With a feverish grip Stringer clutched it and carried it 
to his lips. He dropped it with a sharp cry, while Dr. 
Hay, smiling perplexedly, searched vacancy again with 
his hand. 

“I did you grievous wrong, Dr. Hay,” Stringer said 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


361 


at last, “and you’ve repaid evil with good. I’m ashamed 
o’ myself. I say it afore all these people, that all the 
village may know it. Isaac Stringer is ashamed and 
sorry for havin’ spoken an’ done agin you as he did. 
Ashamed and sorry from the bottom of his heart.” 

He held out his hand, forgetting for the moment that 
the Rector could not see it ; but Dr. Hay approached, 
and, placing one hand on Stringer’s shoulder, grasped 
the churchwarden’s hand with the other. 

“ Don’t say any more about it, Stringer,” he said. 
“ I am only too happy to have been able to be of service 
to you ; and now you’ve got your children back, keep 
them. They’re worth keeping, I promise you.” 

The rest of what he said was drowned amid the cheer- 
ing that rang through the room and in the street outside. 
Stringer and the Rector were friends, and they were all 
one happy family again, without dissensions to divide 
them, without bickerings in their church, without sore- 
ness pf heart amid their devotions. 

Stringer had begged the Rector’s pardon publicly 
before all men. The news spread with lightning rapid- 
ity, and men came running up from all parts of the 
village to be witnesses of that unhoped-for reconcilia- 
tion. 

As Mrs. Hay read out the figures in her husband’s 
pass-book that evening as they were sitting in committee 
of ways and means, she totted up the sums which Dr. 
Hay had expended in Joseph’s behalf, and found that 
they amounted to eighty-five pounds. 

“ It’s a lot of money, dear Denis,” she said. “ The man 
pretends to be grateful to you, and no doubt he is ; but 
he ought to pay that money, and not you.” 

“ It’s the best-spent eighty-five pounds, my dear, that I 


362 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


have ever paid away in my life. Think of it ! The peace 
of my parish bought for eighty-five pounds — brotherly 
and Christianly feeling restored in Thorbury for eighty- 
five pounds ! No, my dear, we will not allow Stringer to 
repay us that money. That shall be his one punishment. 
He shall remain in my debt forever.” 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


368 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Stringer’s reconciliation with the Rector, and the 
return of his children, were the nine days’ wonder of the 
village of Thor bury. With the recantation of their 
chiefs the Stringer faction dissolved and vanished like 
snow before the summer sunshine. 

On the Sunday following the coming home of his 
son and daughter, Stringer appeared for the first time 
in the rebuilt church, and young and old wondered 
at the change in the man’s manner. He had been 
snappish before, and now he was kindly. He had been 
surly, and now he was pleasant. His children used to 
move in fear and trembling of him, and now they seemed 
contented in their father’s presence. He regained his 
strength in a surprisingly short space of time, and he 
. was never so happy as when his daughter was about 
him. Even Grannie Noble had to confess that she had 
been wrong in her estimate of his character. 

“ Speak o’ washin’ a nigger white,” the old woman 
exclaimed, “it ain’t a hand’s turn compared with makin’ 
your father that pleasant-spoke, my dear. 1 can remem- 
ber the day when they’d ha’ bin lookin’ for the witch as 
did it. Theer now, my dear, and though it is to you 
as is his child as I say it, theer wasn’t a grumpier man, 
nor a more spiteful one in Thorbury than your father, 
an’ what’s come over him that sudden you may brek my 
head an’ I couldn’t tell you.” 

Mary was quite as much surprised as the rest of the 


364 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


good people of the village at the change in her father’s 
demeanor, but she was too happy to say aught about it. 

As Joseph’s week of furlough drew near its end, 
Stringer decided to go up to London with him for the 
purpose of buying him off. To this project he joined 
another, more difficult to perform ; and how to proceed 
about it he did not know. He had heard that the origi- 
nal Bishops’ Bible, which Mac Wraith and Reinemann 
had stolen, was for sale somewhere abroad, and that a 
large sum of money was being asked for it. Leipzig 
had been mentioned to him as the actual town ; but for 
all the geographical significance that fact had to Stringer, 
they might just as well have named Yokohoma, Lisbon, 
or Constantinople. He knew that it was abroad, that 
it was far away, and that the sea lay between it and 
England. He had an uncertain fancy that the people 
who lived there did not speak English, though why any- 
body, anywhere, should not speak English, he was at a 
loss to comprehend. English was good enough for him, 
and had been good enough for his father and his grand- 
father before him, so it ought to be good enough for all 
the world. He had come across a few foreigners. Most 
of them spoke English funnily, some of them badly ; but 
all of them spoke English, even if it was after a fashion 
of their own. Therefore, when Habakkuk told him that 
if lie went to Leipzig he would not be able to ask for as 
much as a glass of water or a glass of beer, or a bit of 
bread and cheese, and make himself understood, he held 
up his hands in holy horror that such a place existed in 
the wide, wide world ; and he was not a bit astonished 
that that was the town in which they offered for public 
sale valuable property stolen in England. It must be an 
ungodly Papish town. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 865 

“ Then, if I went theer,” Stringer asked Habakknk, 
“ I couldn’t give ’em the length o’ my tongue?” 

“Not without thee didst tek somebody wi’ thee to 
speak foreign for thee,” the sexton replied. “ I ain’t no 
hand at them outlandish languages myself ; but theer’s 
the horganist, and the Rector, and Mr. Frank — they all 
do speak no end of ’em.” 

“An’ if I told them what to say, they’d give them 
furriners a bit o’ my mind in such a way as they’d 
understand ? ” Stringer asked. 

“Well, as I tek it,” Habakkuk answered, “them 
what sells the Bible ain’t the men what stole it.” 

“Stole it? Sellin’ stolen property ain’t much better 
’an stealin’ it,” the churchwarden insisted. “ I must get 
somebody to go along wi’ me. I wish you could ha’ 
done it, Habakkuk. I did hate the sight o’ you once, 
but I could put up with you now. I don’t quite like to 
ask that Mister Sansover; I think I’ll hask Mister 
Frank.” 

Stringer turned his project over in his mind for a day, 
and then decided to appeal to Frank Boyer for assist- 
ance. The next morning, wrapping himself in his great- 
coat and muffler, he set out on the snowy road towards 
Thorbury Chase. He had set his heart on doing the 
thing on the sly, so to say. There was a peculiar 
piquancy to his John-Bull humor in the thought that he 

— the slow-going, humdrum churchwarden, who knew 
nothing, and cared to know nothing, of outlandish 
tongues — was going right among these wicked for- 
eigners, in their very own country, for the purpose of 
taking from them — as from a legendary dragon’s jaws 

— the book which was their prey at that very moment. 
He wanted to bring the old Bible back again, and to lay 


366 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


it on the lectern at night-time when nobody was about; 
and he wanted the Rector to be told that the old origi- 
nal volume, which had been placed in the church by 
order of the Bishops in days of yore, was there again, 
without anybody being able to tell whence it came, or 
how it got there. 

He was walking towards the Chase with brisk and 
sprightly steps, humming a snatch of an old hymn tune 
and smiling in complacent self-satisfaction, when on a 
sudden he saw Mr. Martin White, who was coming to- 
wards him from the direction of the Rectory. 

The old scholar walked with the elasticity of an ever- 
green age, and replied to the churchwarden’s cheery, 
“ How d’ye do, sir? ” with an affable “ Thank you, Mr. 
Stringer, I’m quite well.” 

The sight of the bibliophile brought a bright idea 
into Stringer’s mind. Here was the very person to do 
what was required. White was the very man to go 
abroad with him and buy the book. He was an expert, 
and even these foreigners, who might cheat Mr. Frank, 
would not be able to get over White. Stringer resolved 
to act immediately on the lovely idea which had struck 
him. 

“ Going to stay for a while in Thorbury, sir ? ” he 
asked. 

“ I’m going back to-night or to-morrow morning,” the 
old gentleman answered. “ I am glad to hear,” he added, 
“ that your differences about that Bishops’ Bible have 
been adjusted.” 

“ I’d like to have a talk with you about that same ode 
Bible, if I may mek so bold as to hask you to come to 
my house.” 

Stringer’s voice sounded unusually diffident as he 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 367 

spoke, and he looked into the expert’s gray eyes as if he 
would search them for a favorable answer. 

“ You’re not going to have any more disputes about 
that book, surely ? ” Mr. White demanded, raising his 
eyebrows, and arranging his white cravat as if he were 
afraid of being asked to undertake a disagreeable task. 

“ Oh, dear, no, sir ! ” Stringer answered apologetically. 
“ No fear o’ that. But I want you to help me about it,” he 
added half pleadingly ; “ an’, what’s more, I don’t want 
the Rector to know nothin’ about what you’re goin’ to 
help me to do.” He looked at White for a moment, and, 
seeing that the latter made no reply, he continued: 
“ An’ it isn’t agin the Rector, that you may feel sure 
on. Quite the contrary.” 

“ You’re a strange man, Mr. Stringer ! ” the bookworm 
exclaimed smilingly. He had been studying Stringer’s 
appearance as he stood looking at him. There was a 
change in the churchwarden’s voice and manner, rather 
for the better, White thought, which he could not quite 
explain. 

“ Ay, ay — quite so,” Stringer retorted. “ Theer is 
them as has got to know me yet. But if you don’t 
mind, Mr. White, an’ if you can spare the time, I’d tek 
it as a favor if you was to come to my house, an’ let me 
talk to you in privit. I’ll stay theer waitin’ for you all 
day.” 

The bibliophile was rather favorably impressed by 
Stringer’s appeal for his assistance, and as his afternoon 
was not particularly occupied, he promised to call at the 
churchwarden’s house. He also consented to keep the 
object of his visit secret from the Rector and the Rector’s 
household. 

Stringer, when the old gentleman had walked on, 


m 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


looked after him for a while as if in doubt, and then 
turned on his heels as proud as a turkey-cock. Things 
were going swimmingly. He was going to have his own 
way. He felt half inclined to shout 44 Hurrah ! ” but 
smothered the exclamation which rose to his throat, 
when, from the top of the hedge on the other side of the 
road, he saw a pair of round eyes that belonged to the 
dirty face of a dirty little boy, grinning at him in an 
idiotic leer. Even that did not upset his good-humor. 
A month ago he would have shouted at that boy and 
frightened him out of his wits. Now he simply laughed 
inwardly, and went home happy and content. 

When Stringer reached his residence, he made much 
ado about the expected visit. The whole household 
was soon astir with preparations to receive Mr. White 
with befitting honor. 

Stringer made the sudden and surprising discovery 
that there was not a chair in his parlor big enough and 
wide enough comfortably to seat so distinguished a per- 
son as the London expert, and he ordered Joseph to 
fetch the big old Queen- Anne, leather-covered armchair 
— a massive, huge structure like a small room — and to 
place it by the side of the parlor fire. 

Mary pleaded that it was not a bit in keeping with the 
rest of the furniture, and that there was a very nice and 
comfortable round armchair there already. 

“ And he’s such a little man, father,” she suggested. 
44 He’ll be lost in that big thing.” 

44 Don’t you think that, Mary,” her father replied, 
stubbornly intent on having his own way. 44 It’s the 
little men as likes the big things. Look at that Simon 
Masterman, as isn’t much more than a dwarf, an’ has 
married Eva Strange, as is six foot to an inch in her 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


369 


stockings. You leave that ode cheer theer, Jo- 
seph.” 

Mary might pout just a trifle, but Stringer had to be 
obeyed. He tried that chair by sitting in it, first on the 
right, then on .the left, then in the centre, and even his 
burly form barely filled one-half of it. 

A proud man was the churchwarden when, a few 
hours later, Martin White accepted his invitation to be 
seated in the ancient fauteuil. The little man looked 
like lost in its vast recess, and his legs dangled rather 
uncomfortably, but Stringer contemplated the result of 
his scheme as quite an achievement. 

He opened the ball in his usually blunt manner. 

“Leipzig is a bit far away from here, isn’t it?” he 
asked. 

“ It is,” White replied. “ It’s in Germany — in 
Saxony.” 

This explanation did not convey much information to . 
Mr. Stringer. He scratched the back of his head. 

“ It’d tek a man a longish -bit o’ time to get theer, 
wouldn’t it? ” he inquired. 

“ From here it would take about four or five days,” was 
the scholar’s answer. “ It greatly depends upon the route 
selected.” 

Stringer ejaculated a desultory “ H’m,” and rubbed 
the carpet with one foot, looking at it as if he were 
searching there for a phrase which did not quickly 
suggest itself. 

“ Ever bin theer? ” he exclaimed, raising his eyes. 

“ Oh, yes,” the expert answered, “ I know the place 
well.” 

“You speak the language, I suppose?” Stringer 
continued. 


3T0 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“ I speak German, if that is what you mean,” White 
exclaimed. 

“ Queerish sort o’ country, Leipzig?” the church- 
warden suggested. 

White smiled at this peculiar and persistent interro- 
gation. 

“Leipzig is not a country, Mr. Stringer,” he said. 
“ It is a city.” 

“ Like the city o’ London ? ” 

“ No, not as big as that — nothing like it.” 

“ Like the city o’ York, then? ” 

“ Yes, more like that. Somewhat larger, and more of 
a business place.” 

“ Let me see,” Stringer continued, drawing his chair 
nearer to where the expert sat. “ Do you still work 
for that firm in London ? ” 

“ Yes, I still work for that firm in London,” White 
•replied, rather pointedly. 

“When you cum here to me, last summer, they 
charged me five pound a day for you and your hotel ex- 
penses, and your travellin’ expenses.” 

The old scholar shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I suppose they did charge you something like that. 
It is not within my province,” he said. 

“Would you consider me liimpertinent if I was to 
hask if you’ve got anything particular to do durin’ the 
next fortnight ? ” the churchwarden inquired. 

“ Not that I know of,” the bibliophile answered with 
a smile. “ But what is the purpose of your question? ” 

“Well,” Stringer exclaimed diffidently, “I hope as 
you won’t tek it as no hoffence, becos theer’s none 
meant, an’ what I want you to do is as I may do what’s 
right by the Rector ; an’ I’d like to know if your firm 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 371 

in London would hire you out to me for a fortnight if I 
was to hask ’em.’* 

He spoke so seriously, and with such intense nervous 
strain on his words, that Martin White felt that the 
question was not asked in any spirit of levity. 

“ My dear Mr. Stringer,” he said, “ I have no doubt my 
firm would hire me out to you for a fortnight, as you say, 
if you were to ask them, and I were to consent. I have 
no doubt your object is most laudable, but, before con- 
senting, I must be made acquainted with that object.” 

“ I want you to go to Leipzig with me,” Stringer an- 
swered, “ becos it ain’t no use my goin’ theer by myself, 
not speakin’ their outlandish lingo ; an’ I want to go 
theer an’ buy the ode Bishops' Bible what those men 
stole from the Rector, an’ left that himitation in its 
place’ what’s bin the cause of all the bother in this 
parish.” 

“ But, Mr. Stringer,” White exclaimed in amazement, 
u that will cost you a lot of money. They are asking 
six hundred and fifty pounds for the book, and the ex- 
penses and my fees would cost you over a hundred 
pounds more. I would gladly go without any fee, but 
I’m afraid my employer would not be satisfied without 
his customary pound of flesh. He looks upon me as an 
investment which is bound to bring him so much profit 
in every year.” 

“ Seven hunderd an’ fifty pound ! ” Stringer drawled 
stolidly. “ Say eight hunderd, an’ mek sure we’ve got 
enough. I hain’t got so much money here, but I’ll 
draw it out o’ the bank to-morrow. An’ if you wouldn’t 
mind arrangin’ this business with your people, an’ lettin’ 
me know wheer I can meet you as early as you like on 
Saturday next, we’ll start that very day for Leipzig. 


372 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE . 


I’ve set my heart on gettin’ that book back, an’ puttin’ 
it in Thorbury Church, right on the lectern, an’ not 
telling nobody nothin’ about it. An’ if you’ll help me, 
sir, an’ we don’t meet with no mishap on the road, that 
ode Bible shall he theer — God bein’ willin’ — afore 
we’re three weeks older.” 

There was an air of droll seriousness and of out- 
spoken honesty about the man which convinced White 
that in helping him he would aid in a good cause. 

“You don’t seem to be over-strong just now, Mr. 
Stringer,” he said. “ Are not you afraid to travel so far 
in winter-time? You know it’s cold over there — 
colder than here.” 

“I reckon as I can get through it,” Stringer answered. 
“ I’m stronger than many a young ’un.” 

“ I think we had better go via Hamburg,” the expert 
suggested. “It will be cheaper, and probably as short 
as any route, if there is a steamer going on Saturday. 
Have you ever been to sea, Mr. Stringer ? ” 

The burly one replied with a disconsolate “No.” 

“You will be very sick, probably,” Mr. White con- 
tinued, by way of encouragement. 

“ If I’ve got to he sick, I’ve got to be,” was Stringer’s 
stoical retort, “ though I’ve heerd folks say as theer’s 
lots o’ people as goes on ships as niver is sick at all, an’ 
maybe I’m one of ’em.” 

“ Have you any particular house where you stay when 
you go to London ? ” the bookworm inquired. 

“ I generally put up at the Blue Boar in ’Olborn,” 
Stringer answered. “ I’ve bin goin’ theer these thirty 
year.” 

“ Very well,” White exclaimed. “ I will meet you at 
the Blue Boar on Saturday next at nine o’clock in the 
morning. Is that too early for you ? ” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


373 


“ Not a bit on it,” Stringer replied. “ An’ thank yon 
kindly, sir, for helpin’ me.” 

This important matter thus satisfactorily arranged, 
there remained another to be considered, namely, how 
to absent himself for so long a time from the village 
without his absence being noticed and commented on. 
It would be known that he was going to London to buy 
Joseph off, and the process of liberating a man who had 
donned the uniform of her Majesty’s Life Guards was 
known to be a tedious and intricate one. 

Joseph himself did not quite relish the idea of re- 
signing barrack life in London, with its parks, its liber- 
ties, and its various amusements, for the quiet and un- 
eventful course of existence in the Midland village. lie 
was too glad, however, of being reconciled to his father 
to resist the latter’s proposal. 

On the next day, Tuesday, quite a family party as- 
sembled on Thorbury platform to witness the departure 
of Isaac Stringer and his son. The churchwarden, pro- 
vided with rugs and wraps of vast proportions, had fitted 
himself out for the voyage as if he were about to jour- 
ney to the North Pole. Mary wiped just a little tear 
away as she kissed her father and bade him Godspeed. 
Even Grannie Noble, who stayed behind to take care of 
Mary, was affected and blubbered. The churchwarden, 
however, felt as full of ardor and valorous excitement 
as if he were going on some mission of derring-do. The 
French conscript journeying to his regiment, excited by 
the generous vintage of his village, and dreaming of 
. the proverbial mar^chal’s baton that was to lie hidden 
in his knapsack, could not possibly be, momentarily, 
more elated than Stringer was when the engine puffed 
and screamed, and the train moved out of Thorbury 


374 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


Station amid a cloud of white steam and the agitated 
fluttering of a little covey of handkerchiefs. 

“I’m a-goin’ to be a furriner, Joseph,” he said, “just 
for a while. I wonder what it feels like, bein’ a 
furriner.” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


375 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Joseph had returned to his barracks, and the initial 
negotiations for his discharge from Her Majesty’s ser- 
vice had been completed. There was every prospect 
that within a month Joseph would be able to return to 
Thorbury freed from army discipline. 

Isaac Stringer had found his time considerably occu- 
pied, and Friday evening had come before he hardly 
knew it. He had received a note from White informing 
him that the expert had taken passages for himself and 
Stringer on board the Hamburg Company’s steamship 
Elbe , which was to sail from St. Katharine’s Docks at 
eleven o’clock Saturday morning. “ I think that this 
information will be sufficient for you,” the bibliophile 
had added, “ and that it will be unnecessary for me to 
call at the Blue Boar. Any cab will take you to St. 
Katharine’s Docks, and I will meet you at the steamer’s 
side at half-past ten o’clock to-morrow (Saturday) 
morning.” 

Stringer longed and pined for the old gentleman’s 
society, and this slight delay was a disappointment to 
him. He carried his money in a stout leather belt which 
he had strapped around his body underneath his shirt, 
but even with that precaution he did not care to venture 
far away from his hostelry at night. He therefore found 
a comfortable armchair in the old-fashioned oak-wains- 
coted smoking-room, where, with a steaming glass of 
toddy in front of him, and a long clay pipe between his 


376 


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fingers, he was soon engaged in converse with rustic 
notabilities like himself, some of whom he had met on 
previous occasions. When these were informed that, 
on the morrow, Stringer was about to venture into for- 
eign climes, they looked upon him with deference and 
awe, and the churchwarden became the object of the 
most obsequious courtesy and attention. The upshot 
of all this -was that Stringer imbibed several more 
glasses of toddy than he was accustomed to at Thor- 
bury, and to these several toddies others were added 
when the smoking-room was closed and the cronies were 
driven to resort to the bar. Each and every one insisted 
that Stringer should partake of a separate stirrup-cup 
with him. Stringer’s eyes became bleary, and his speech 
thick and muddled, his movements erratic, and he held 
on to the window-sill as a shipwrecked mariner clings 
to a floating spar for safety. Luckily for him, the mo- 
ment came when even the bar was closed, and Stringer, 
with the night-porter on one side of him and the barman 
on the other, thought he walked, but in fact was rather 
carried, upstairs, where the two servants deposited him 
on his bed, and after pulling off his coat and his boots, 
left him singing at the top of his voice : 

“ It’s my delight of a shiny night 
In the season of the year.” 

The morrow’s awakening brought the evening s re- 
venge. As Stringer sat up on his bed, shivering, with 
the sheet and coverlet twisted in seemingly inextricable 
confusion about him, he thought that his head had 
grown several sizes too big for him, and that there was 
something within it which hammered against his cranium 
in its efforts to get out. He felt the offending member 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


377 


of his anatomy all over, in the vague imagining that, 
somehow or other, he had got possessed of a head other 
than his own. 

The cool air of his bedroom soon roused him from his 
phantasy, and he became aware, in a practical matter-of- 
fact manner, that his present state was due to the ex- 
traordinary imbibings of the previous night. He did not 
quite dare to risk his usual remedy in similar cases, cold 
tub, and sat for a long while with his legs dangling, and 
his hands folded in front of him, a picture of abject 
misery. The ticking of his watch brought him to a 
sense of what was expected from him that day. Time 
and his duties forced themselves upon his perturbed 
mind, and he shook himself together with an involun- 
tary tremor of self-contempt for having allowed himself 
to be so misled. A solid breakfast of hot tea, sausages, 
toast nearly swimming in butter, and some rare cold 
streaky roast pork, made him feel like himself again. 

The morning fog was just lifting, and the spirelet of 
St. Sepulchre was glistening in the sun, when Stringer, 
having stowed his voluminous luggage within and with- 
out a four-wheeler, was driven down Holborn and up 
Snowhill, and thence through Newgate Street and Cheap- 
side into the maze of busy little streets leading to St. 
Katharine’s Docks. He reached the side of the steamer 
Elbe after varions more or less angry discussions with 
officials, touts, and porters, and there found Mr. White 
waiting for him. He had never been aboard of an 
ocean-going steamer, and everything on the ship was 
new, and curious, and interesting, though it did smell, 
as he said, “ beastly of oil and tar.” He felt quite a 
sailor, walking up and down the upper deck as the ves- 
sel lay still in dock ; and as the Elbe moved into the 


378 


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river, and steamed along majestically, and no qualms of 
stomach forced themselves intrusively upon him, he was 
sure that the trip to Hamburg would be productive of 
invigorating pleasure to him. 

The weather was really beautiful for winter-time. 

A slight grayish haze pearled upon the waters, but over 
it and through it the sun shone with resplendent glory, 
a ball of red fire sending its prismatic light to dance in 
the air in millions upon millions of shining atoms. „ 
There was just enough breeze to make its contact 
refreshing, and, as the Elbe steamed to the mouth of 
the Thames, Stringer, at White’s suggestion, went 
downstairs into the cabin to partake of dinner. 

It remained a mystery to the churchwarden to the 
end of his days, when and where the inexplicable move- 
ment commenced which transformed him from a man 
endowed with all the courage of a stubborn race, into a 
limp, useless, helpless, and broken-down piece of 
humanity. He never finished that dinner, and never 
knew how he got to his cabin, where he found himself 
lying in his bunk, while a sailor performed for him 
various friendly offices. He had been sick several times 
before, very sick, but he vowed that never previous to 
that day had he known what it was to be really ill 
He wished from the bottom of his heart that he had 
never thought of going to Hamburg. He wished that 
there were no such town as Hamburg, and no steamer 
to take a man there. He wished he were in Jericho, in 
a cage full of lions — anywhere but on that vessel. He 
would have given all he was worth, and all he was ever 
likely to be worth, to be on terra firma again ; and if 
anybody had come to him at that moment telling him 
that the ship was about to go down into the depths of 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


379 


the sea, he would have blessed his stars at being thus 
relieved of his affliction. It was no longer a wonder to 
him that foreigners were such peculiar people, if they 
were all exposed to such trials as this. 

The weary, horrible day, and the wearier, more 
horrible night, that he passed! How that abominable 
ship pitched and rolled, and rolled and pitched, making 
his very heart stand on end, and his stomach a blas- 
phemy of uselessness and torture. During one terrible 
moment, when, with eyes starting from their sockets, 
he gasped for breath, he looked at the little porthole as 
if seeking a spot whence, by any means, to escape from 
the pains that racked him and seemed to break him up 
altogether. 

The next day, as bright and sunshiny as the previous 
one, brought a slight amelioration, and by and by 
Stringer gained sufficient strength to allow White to 
drag him to the open deck, where he sat with the flaps 
of his travelling-cap tucked over his ears, and with his 
rugs wrapped around his legs, open-mouthed, and look- 
ing about him as helplessly as a babe. 

“Will I be as sick as this when I’m a-comin’ back?” 
he asked White in a wheeny, whining voice. 

“No, most likely not,” the latter replied cheerily. 
“You’ve got to buy your sea-legs, you see. Perhaps 
the next time you mayn’t be sick at all.” 

“ I hope so,” the churchwarden whispered. 

The thought had suggested itself to him that if he 
were again to be subjected to such tortures, would it 
not be wiser not to go back at all ? 

The fresh breeze and the glorious sun soon did 
wonders with Stringer, and, in less than an hour, he 
had thrown off his wraps and was walking slowly up and 


380 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


down the deck on White’s arm; and by the time they 
reached the mouth of the Elbe, Stringer had forgotten all 
about his pains and ills, and felt himself quite a sailor, 
ready to brave the sea and its terrors again at any 
moment. 

They stayed at Hamburg over-night, and the quaint 
buildings of the free Hanseatic town looked to Stringer 
like bits from old prints he had seen at different times. 
The waiters in the hotel where they stopped spoke 
English, and Stringer referred pointedly to the fact 
that he could make himself understood quite as well as 
in England, and that these foreigners were not such 
savages after all. 

He was undeceived next morning when, at the rail- 
way-station, in the momentary absence of Mr. White, a 
big, burly, mustachioed gendarme, with a great sabre at 
his side, said something to him in a tone of* command 
which he did not comprehend. Stringer, with a com- 
placent smile and a slight nod, said that he did not at all 
understand, and was about to move on, when the pompous 
official, with an exclamation which sounded to Stringer 
like a grunt, caught the churchwarden by the shoulder 
and roughly twisted him back again, chattering and 
gesticulating furiously. It would have been difficult to 
say what would have been the result of this altercation v 
had not White appeared on the scene as a mediator and 
restorer of peace, explaining to Mr. Stringer that the 
man had been merely doing his duty in preventing the 
churchwarden from walking into the ladies’ private 
room. 

“ Then why couldn’t he say so ? ” Stringer exclaimed 
in his wrath. “What’s the good of jabbering in a 
language that no man can hunderstand? Why don’t 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


381 


they write it up plain, ‘ Ladies’ Room,’ instead of all 
sorts of rubbidge what’s got no meaning to it?” 

The German second-class carriages of that period 
were so far superior to English means of locomotion of 
a similar kind, that Stringer’s good-temper returned 
speedily. He found himself in a soft-cushioned and 
soft-backed, gray-cloth-upholstered compartment, which 
seemed to him the acme of railway accommodation. 
He was a little nonplussed at the ticket-collectors, who 
walked along the footboards, and put their heads in at 
the carriage-windows while the train was moving at 
full speed, and wondered that they did not tumble off 
or get smashed. 

To Stringer’s eyes everything he saw — the people, 
the buildings, the food, the drink, and especially the 
soldiers that swarmed at nearly every railway-station — 
appeared novel and curious. He did not care for the 
beer, and considered it washy. He still less liked the 
wine, which he described as weak vinegar. The bread 
was rather more to his fancy, but the uncooked ham of 
the railway buffets did not at all meet with his approval. 
He had often at Thorbury partaken, of German sausage, 
and was wofully disappointed to find that he could get 
none at the refreshment-rooms. German pastry, how- 
ever, he thought wonderful, and managed to exist 
throughout the day on products of the confectioner’s 
art. 

Communication in those days was neither as direct 
nor as speedy as it is now. Twice White and Stringer 
had to stop at places the very names of which the 
churchwarden could not harbor in his memory. They 
arrived at Leipzig in the middle of the night, and 
Stringer was glad to stretch his weary limbs on a huge 


382 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


feather-bed which he considered much too soft. Early 
the next morning White went out by himself on a 
reconnoitring expedition to the shop of Messieurs 
Ehrenfest Brothers, the booksellers who were in posses- 
sion of the Thorbury Bible. 

Stringer, left by himself in the vast coffee-room, 
looked out upon the busy street. The house opposite, 
with its projecting diamond-paned windows, its little 
gables, its gargoyles, and other grotesque carvings, with 
its tarnished gilt iron scroll-work, with its general ap- 
pearance of venerable old age, reminded Stringer of 
houses he had seen in English cathedral towns. The 
crowd, too, that hurried to and fro, did not differ much 
from what he was accustomed to see — in Birmingham, 
for instance. The only difference he noticed particularly 
was in the uniforms of the soldiers. 

He stood at the big window watching amusedly, and 
the time did not seem at all long, yet he was eager for 
White to return and report the result of his inquiries. 
His crisp Bank of England notes were in his belt, and 
he had been told, with truth, that these were current 
coin anywhere. He did not propose to haggle much. 
These men had come by the book by unlawful means, 
and he, personally, did not intend to demean himself by 
bargaining with them. That would have been to ac- 
knowledge their rights, but he had some slight mis- 
givings lest these unconscionable foreign booksellers, 
finding him too eager to buy, were to raise their price 
beyond the sum he had about him. 

White returned in about half an hour. 

“You can go and make your own bargain, Mr. 
Stringer,” he said. “ I have been there and examined 
the book, and find it the genuine Thorbury Bishops’ 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


383 


Bible, beautifully restored and quite perfect. The bind- 
ing is modern, but you have the old oak, leather-covered 
boards in Thorbury, and can have them easily refitted. 
Mr. Heinrich Ehrenfest has lived in England,and speaks 
English. You can therefore carry on your own nego- 
tiations, and I will be there to assist you in any way I 
can.” 

Stringer would have much preferred not to have any- 
thing to do with the matter except pay the price. 

“ I ain’t no hand at bargaining with them sharpin’ 
foreigners,” he said. “ I’d much rather you’d do it for 
me, if so you be willin’ ! ” 

The expert insisted, however, that the arrangement he 
proposed was best, and the churchwarden accompanied 
him reluctantly to Messieurs Ehrenfest’s shop. Stringer 
had formed no particular idea of the kind of person he 
was likely to meet, but he was taken considerably aback 
on discovering that Herr Heinrich Ehrenfest was an im- 
posing and portly gentleman, with a face like an Eng- 
lish bishop’s, smooth-shaven except for slight white 
whiskers, and with his shining bald head encircled by a 
rim of white hair. He wore a black frock-coat, a black 
satin waistcoat, and a spotless white neckcloth, above 
which his collar shone of ivory-white. Quite a bunch of 
massive gold seals dangled from his fob, a big signet- 
ring glittered on his finger, and Mr. Stringer, who had 
come to the place fully and savagely intent to “ let ’em 
have it straight an’ no mistek about it,” felt instinctively 
that he would nearly as lief have said rude things to the 
Archbishop of Canterbury as to Mr. Heinrich Ehrenfest, 
who received him in the most pompously courteous 
manner imaginable. 

“ I am very sorry, sar,” the Leipzig bookseller com- 


384 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


menced, “ that we are not able to dedooct motch from 
the brice of de Bishops’ Bible. I haf olreaty exblained 
to Mister White dat we can get eight hoondred pounds 
for it in Miinchen, bot I haf consoolted wit my pardners, 
and we will take fife hoondred pounds sterling. We 
want to make no brofit.” 

Here was a marvel of marvels ! He had come to 
Leipzig fully prepared to pay six hundred and fifty 
pounds, and he was going to be let off by expending five 
hundred. Of course it was a lot to pay, in any case, to 
regain property which had been stolen ; but that deduction 
of a hundred and fifty pounds made him take quite a 
liking to the people who had treated him so leniently. 
He was afraid that they might repent themselves of their 
offer, and was not content till he felt the volume tucked 
away under his arm in return for five notes of one hun- 
dred pounds each. He neither asked for nor would take 
a receipt. That looked to him like compounding a felony, 
he said. 

When he walked out into the street with his treasure 
in his possession a new fear sprang upon him. What if 
he lost the book ? What if it were stolen from him ? 
His eager craving now was to get away from the place, 
and to get home again as speedily as possible. 

That’s a very nice-spoken gentleman,” Stringer said, 
fondling and admiring his newly recovered treasure when 
they had reached the hotel. 

“ Very,” the old scholar replied curtly. 

“ He let me off cheap,” Stringer continued, taken 
slightly aback by the brevity of the remark. 

“ Yes, quite cheap,” White answered. 

Stringer looked at his companion with a nonplussed 
air, and then went on : 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


385 


“ My heart went down clean into my boots when he 
said that he could get eight hundred pound for the book 
at that place — what’s its name ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, he said that,” the expert answered in the 
tone he had previously adopted. 

“ Then don’t you think it’s very kind o’ him,” the 
churchwarden asked, not knowing what to make of 
White’s manner, “ to tek five hundred for it from me ? ” 

“ Very kind,” was the short reply. 

“ Theer’s something as you’re a-keepin’ back, sir,” 
Stringer suggested tremulously. “Theer’s something 
as ain’t quite square. Ain’t the Bible worth five hun- 
dred pounds ? ” 

“ Oh, it is worth more than that,” the bibliophile an- 
swered. “ You can make your mind easy on that sub- 
ject.” 

“ Well,” the baffled interlocutor exclaimed, “ I’ll be 
bothered if I can mek heads or tails of it. What made 
him that kind an’ that forbearin’ that he teks five hun- 
dred pound from me for a book as he can sell for eight 
hundred? I don’t know what you think, sir, but I tek 
it as very generous, I do.” 

“ Mr. Ehrenfest knows which side his bread is but- 
tered,” the old scholar answered. “ He did not reduce 
his price without sufficient reason.” 

“ Oh, theer was other reasons, then ?” Stringer asked. 
A light dawned upon him, and he smiled his proudest as 
he proclaimed his discovery. “ It’s you, sir, what made 
him do it, I’ll bargain. I’d like to bet a fiver agin a five- 
shillin’ piece as it’s you what made him do it.” 

“Well, I fancy I exercised some influence on his 
decision,” White remarked casually. 

“Didn’t I tell you so?” Stringer exclaimed gleefully. 
“ I guessed all along as it was you.” 


386 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


His admiration for the old scholar assumed astonish- 
ing proportions. He had previously looked upon him 
as a man of vast learning, research, and experience ; but 
now White became quite a mighty magician to his mind. 

“ I s’pose you wouldn’t mind tellin’ me, sir,” he fal- 
tered, “ if it ain’t a business secret, becos it gets over 
me how you got over that Mister — what d’ye call 
’im ? ” 

“ It is a very simple affair,” the expert replied ; “ and 
there is no secret whatever about it. I hold permanent 
commissions from the richest and most extensive Eng- 
lish buyers of rare books. I told Mr. Ehrenfest can- 
didly that I would throw his catalogues into the waste- 
paper basket if he did not deal fairly by you. Last 
year my customers spent over five thousand pounds 
with him. This makes me believe that my statement 
had some weight with him when he fixed the price of 
your Bible.” 

“ I’m much beholden to you, sir,” Stringer exclaimed 
warmly. “ Not as I mind the money. That ain’t so 
much. But it’s the hidea of beatin’ them mean furriners 
as does me good. I’m that pleased I don’t know what to 
say. Let’s have a bottle o’ port, sir, an’ then we’ll have 
a try an’ get out of this country an’ back to hold 
England as quick as ever we can.” 

White decided to return to London vid Cologne and 
Brussels. There was no steamer from Hamburg to 
London for two days, and, besides that, the short sea 
route would be better for Stringer, with his limited 
maritime experience. 

It was a long, cold, and tedious journey, and the 
churchwarden thought he would never get to the end 
of it. He had made a separate parcel of the treasured 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


387 


volume, and nursed it in all Ins waking hours along the 
road as a woman would a baby. He never closed ail 
eye without either sitting or lying on it, and when he 
stepped from the steamer on to the pier at Dover, he 
thanked Providence for having allowed him to bring his 
English Bible safely home again to English shores. 

With his foot on English ground he felt comparatively 
safe, but he did not breathe freely until he had entered 
his own house at Thorbury and had locked up his book 
in his strong-box upstairs. 

He was not going to satisfy idle curiosity, however, 
by breathing aught about the success of his journey. 
To the kindliest and most cleverly worded inquiries he 
gave mystifying and evasive answers. He wanted to 
consider well, and choose an appropriate and fitting man- 
ner to restore the old book to the church. 

To Mary and to Grannie Noble he became a greater 
marvel than ever. Not an unkindly word escaped his 
lips, and his child, who had so dreaded him, wondered 
how she could ever have been actuated by such feeling. 

One afternoon, while transacting some business at his 
bank at Castle Barfield, he wrote out a check to bearer 
for eighty-five pounds, and handed it to the receiving 
cashier. 

“ Please pay that in to Dr. Hay’s account,” he said. 

“ Shall I enter it as paid by you, sir ? ” the clerk 
asked. 

“ No ; enter it as 4 cash,’ ” Stringer replied, and 
walked away. 

44 That meks my mind just a little easier now,” he said 
to himself, as he drove home ; 44 an’ if it weren’t for 
them blind eyes of his it would be quite easy. But I 
can’t buy him his sight agin — that I can’t ! ” 


888 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


He was sombre and silent all along the road back, and 
Mary, who was sitting by his side, puzzled her little 
heiad at what was the matter with her father. 

“ I hope you’re not ill ? ” she exclaimed anxiously. 

“No, Mary,” he replied, “I ain’t ill. But I’ve bin 
a-thinkin’ what an awful job it is when you’ve done a 
thing as you can’t undo, an’ as you’re downright sorry for. 
Tek heed o’ what I’m tellin’ you. Don’t you iver judge 
a man hastily an’ by happearances, becos happearances 
is deceivin’, my dear.” 

Mary, for a moment, thought her father was alluding 
to Cornelius Badger, and her conscience smote her. 

“ I never w'ill again, father,” she whispered. “ You 
were right in that, and I was wrong. I promise you, I 
never will again.” 

Stringer had to think twice or thrice before he could 
grasp his daughter’s meaning. When it struck him 
suddenly, he could not help smiling in spite or himself. 

“ Ah, Mary,” he said, “ it would be a good thing if all 
men’s mistakes did no more mischief than yours — no 
more mischief than yours,” he repeated, and was again 
lost in thought. 

“ I can’t buy him his sight agin ! I can’t buy him 
his sight agin ! ” was the phrase that kept dinning in 
his ears all that afternoon. 


THE BISHOPS 1 BIBLE. 


389 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Early in the following week the village of Thorbury 
was much puzzled about a quiet-looking, quiet-spoken 
young man, whom Stringer went to meet in proprid per- 
sond at the railway-station and escorted to his house. 
He was a tallish young man, pale-faced and sandy-haired, 
and rather nervous in his manner. He brought a large 
wooden box with him, and the know-alls about the vil- 
lage related that Stringer had had the top front-room of 
his house specially prepared for him. 

The pale-faced young man was the principal assistant 
of a well-known London bookbinder. Stringer, with 
the Rector’s experience of Messieurs Reinemann and 
Mac Wraith fresh in his mind, promised himself that he 
would not let the book out of his sight this time, and, 
with the assistance of Mr. White, he had induced one 
of the most famous artists in the book-binding trade to 
send his most expert workman to Thorbury, so that the 
old Bible might be refitted in its oak boards without 
quitting his house. White had experienced great diffi- 
culty in this case. The great London book-binders first 
of all laughed at the idea as preposterous and unusual. 
They had had books of far greater value than the Thor- 
bury Bible in their care over and over again, and White 
had to exert all his personal influence to get one of 
them to consent to humor Mr. Stringer. The fee de- 
manded seemed prohibitive and exorbitant, but the 
churchwarden accepted the terms with eagerness, glad 


890 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


to see the work done under his own eyes at any 
price. 

One afternoon of the week following his return from 
Leipzig, Stringer, with his treasure neatly tied up in 
brown paper under his arm, walked to Thorbury Chase. 
The imitation left behind them by Messrs. Reinemann 
and Mac Wraith with the original antique binding was 
still in the Squire’s care. Stringer had set his heart on 
haying it returned to him without the Rector being made 
aware of the fact. 

As luck would have it, Marmaduke Boyer was at 
home alone. 

“ I reckon, Squire, you’ve still got that theer book as 
I left with you last summer,” Stringer said when the 
usual courtesies had been passed. 

“ What book ? ” Boyer demanded. 

u That forged Bible,” the churchwarden answered 
diffidently. 

“ Oh dear ! oh dear ! oh dear ! oh dear ! ” Boyer ex- 
claimed impatiently ; “ I thought I’d heard the last of 
that book. Can’t you leave well alone, Stringer? I 
thought you had made it up with the Rector, and shaken 
hands, and all that.” 

Stringer’s round face creamed with inward satisfaction. 

“ So I have, Squire ; so I have ! ” he cried. 

“ Then what on earth do you want with that book ? ” . 
the Squire asked. “It’s done mischief enough already, 
goodness knows ! ” 

“ It won’t do no more mischief,” Stringer replied, with 
a broad grin on his face ; “ I’ll tek good care it don’t do 
no more mischief.” 

“ Then what do you want to do with it ? ” Boyer 
insisted. 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


391 


Stringer, for all reply, untied the strings of his parcel 
and took his book from its paper coverings. He laid it 
on the table before him with care and ceremony. 

“Look at that, Squire,” he said, pointing proudly to 
the Bible. 

“Well, what of it?” was the rather impatient re- 
joinder. 

“ Look at it, Squire ! look at it ! ” the churchwarden 
insisted, opening the book and fingering the leaves, as 
if he were fondling them. 

“ By J ove ! it looks to me like another copy of the 
Bishops’ Bible ! ” Marmaduke Boyer exclaimed. 

“ Another copy ! ” Stringer retorted with a contempt- 
uous sneer — “ another copy ! It’s the real, genuine 
ode book what’s bin in our church this three hunderd 
year or more ; what them men stole, an’ what I’ve got 
back agin.” 

“ Bravo, you ! You’re a brick, Stringer ! ” Boyer 
cried, slapping Stringer on the shoulder: “I’m beginning 
to think better of you.” 

“ Beginnin’ ? ” Stringer commented. “ I hope as I’ll 
mek you think better o’ me afore I’m many a day oder. 
I’ve got th’ ode book here, an’ you’ve got th’ ode book 
bindin’ on that theer rubbishy thing, an’ I’ve got a chap 
down from London to put the two together. An’ I’ve 
made him bring his tools with him, an’ do it in my own 
house, afore my own eyes ; an’ if that book’s stole agin 
while the job’s bein’ done, you may blame Isaac Stringer, 
an’ he’ll bear it.” 

“ Dr. Hay will be glad when he hears all this,” Boyer 
suggested. 

“ I hope Dr. Hay won’t hear nothin’ about it,” Stringer 
replied. “ I want to do this thing my own way, and I 


392 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


want you to keep a close tongue about it, Squire, even 
from Mr. Frank. I’ve set my heart on it, I have.” 

“ So you want me to humor you ? ” Boyer said cheer- 
ily, standing with legs wide apart in front of the glowing 
chimney fire. “Well, I dare say you must have your 
own way.” 

There was such a merry twinkle in Boyer’s eye as he 
spoke, such a mischievous glitter, which Stringer at one 
moment thought was a sly wink of self-communication, 
that the churchwarden did not feel quite sure of the 
Squire’s sincerity in that promise of secrecy. He recon- 
ciled himself, however, by the thought that it would not 
be long before all Thorbury might know what had been 
done. 

He went home* with two prizes under his arm instead 
of one. The bookbinder from London was waiting for 
him, in his upstairs front room. 

“Them’s the two books, young man,” Stringer said, 
laying the two volumes on the table. “ That’s the real 
book, an’ that’s the real bindin’ ; an’ now, if you please, 
sir, I’ll get you to take the bindin’ off that himitation 
book.” 

The workman, inserting one of his tools here and 
there between the binding and the front leaves, and mak- 
ing a neat and swift incision on each side of the volume, 
stripped the covering off with a speed and skill which 
to Stringer seemed extraordinary, and stood with the 
oak boards in one hand and the vellum leaves in the 
other. 

“ I’ll tek them bits o’ shipskin,” Stringer said quietly ; 
“ an’ now you can set to work, an’ fit the good book into 
the good cover.” 

The rebinding of the old Bible in its former casing 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


393 


proved a far more lengthy job than Stringer had antici- 
pated. He sat there hour after hour and watched the 
workman’s movements, as a cat would watch a mouse. 
When evening came, he collected the leaves and the 
boards in whatever state they were, and wrapping them 
in a big silk handkerchief, he carried them to his strong- 
box downstairs. In the morning he brought them back 
again. When the workman went to his meals in the 
kitchen, Stringer, after locking the room door and put- 
ting the key in his pocket, accompanied him thither. 

In spite of all these precautions, Stringer’s bed was 
far from being a couch of down and rose-leaves, while 
this work was progressing in his house. He would rise 
in the middle of the night, and go to his strong-box and 
take out the book. He would take out the loose leaves 
and look at them one by one, and replace them in happy 
contentment on finding they were all there. 

In antique vellum, nearly every sheet has its peculi- 
arity, and Stringer soon got to know the particular 
marks of every leaf of the old Bible. That page had 
a brown spot on the top, that other one a little blackish 
mark at the bottom. Another one had a tiny round 
hole near the outer edge, and still another one, a kind 
of knot at the bottom corner. He studied all these with 
the glad and fond attention a botanist may bestow upon 
the first sprouting of - hybridized seeds, and it would 
have been difficult, after a while, for a single forged page 
to have been substituted for a genuine one without his 
being aware of it. 

At last the work was finished, the workman paid, and 
the old Bible lay in all its complete beauty in front of 
Stringer. Never did frail beauty more fondly caress a 
pet animal than Stringer did his Bible. 


394 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


Still another difficulty had to be overcome. The 
church was locked at night-time, and Habakkuk had 
the key. Habakkuk must be taken into the secret, and 
although Stringer did not like the idea, he needs must 
make the best of it. In this emergency Stringer had a 
happy thought — he would buy Habakkuk’s silence. 
Habakkuk was getting old — very old ; his wage was 
small, and out of it he could afford no luxuries. 

Now, at the Fox and Dogs they had some rare old 
East India sherry. It had been in the place longer than 
the landlord could remember, and on occasions of im- 
portance mine host would produce that noble vintage 
with a solemnity befitting an offering of liquidized 
pearls. Stringer knew that Habakkuk’s great and only 
weakness was that old sherry, and that the old man 
looked upon it with the longing of the poor shepherd 
who loves a princess, and knows that she is beyond 
his reach. 

To the Fox and Dogs Isaac Stringer bent his steps 
that day, and he left the hostelry again with a bottle of 
the fine old sherry stuck in each of the side-pockets of 
his overcoat. From the inn to Habakkuk Wood’s cot- 
tage was not a long distance, and the churchwarden, 
having walked briskly, felt himself quite in a happy 
glow as he opened the door and saw the sexton sitting 
at his table, with his spectacles on his eyes, busily en- 
gaged on mending a pair of trousers. He greeted the 
old man with a jolly “ Good-morning,” and was answered 
in the same hearty manner. 

“ Coldish weather still,” Stringer exclaimed, slapping 
his gloved hands against one another. 

The sexton sniffed the air as if it bore a peculiar odor. 

“ Coldish,” he replied. “ Come in, gaffer, and shut 
the door. What’s the news this mornin’ ? ” 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE . 


395 


“Nothin’ in partickler,” Stringer answered. “I 
thought I’d give you a look in. It is coldish, though, 
isn’t it?” 

Habakkuk looked out of the window upon the field 
opposite, where the first blades of grass were sprouting, 
and without knowing what to make of his guest’s per- 
sistence, gave a grunt of assent. 

“ As you say, gaffer, it is coldish.” 

Stringer, with a pompous effort, pulled one of the 
bottles out of his pocket, and held it in front of him. 

“ I’ve bin thinkin’, Habakkuk,” he said, “ in this cold 
weather — though it is early in the mornin’ — that a 
glass of that fine old sherry what Hobson sells at the 
Fox an’ Dogs wouldn’t do no harm to you, nor to me 
neither.” 

The old man’s eyes glistened. 

“ Thee don’t mean to say, Isaac Stringer,” he ex- 
claimed, “ that that’s a bottle o’ that same old sherry ? ” 

“It is, Habakkuk,” Stringer replied. 

“ A whole bottle on it ? ” 

“ Yes, a whole bottle.” 

“ An’ you want me to tek a glass o’ that with you ? ” 
the sexton asked, rising and greedily eying the pleas- 
ant temptation which Stringer held in his hand. 

“ If you ain’t got nothin’ to say agin it, I would like 
to tek a glass o’ that with thee,” was Stringer’s answer. 

The sexton, without another word, went to the cup- 
board and produced two tumblers and a corkscrew. 

“I haven’t nothin’ smaller in the house,” he said, 
placing the glasses on the table while Stringer uncorked 
the bottle. 

When the fine old liquor had been tasted and sipped, 
Stringer put on the* table the bottle which had remained 

in his pocket. 


896 


THE BISHOPS' BIBLE. 


“ I want you to do me a service, Habakkuk,” he said. 

“ Willin’ly, willin’ly,” the sexton replied, barely 
taking his glass from his lips. 

“ I want you to lend me the key o’ the church 
to-night.” 

The sexton put down his glass, and looked the church- 
warden straight in the face. 

“ Wha’ for? ” he asked. 

“ I’ll tell thee,” Stringer said quietly, “ but thee 
mustn’t tell nobody else. I’ve got th’ ode Bishops’ 
Bible back agin an’ I’ve got a new silver chain, an’ I 
want to go into the church and fix the book on to the 
lectern, so that it may be found theer, an’ nobody know 
how it got theer.” 

“An’ when do you want to do that?” Habakkuk 
inquired. 

“ To-night,” Stringer answered, “ as soon as it’s dark.” 

“ Here’s the key ! ” the old man exclaimed, throwing 
it on the table. “ Thee can tek that ; I’ve got another.” 

Stringer fancied that he saw in Habakkuk’s eye a 
mischievous gleam similar to that he had noticed in that 
of the Squire. He reflected a moment, and then con- 
cluded that it was merely a fancy. 

“ I didn’t want to have the look o’ bribin’ you, Habak- 
kuk,” he said ; “ but now if you want to keep those two 
bottles o’ sherry, you can.” 

Those two bottles of sherry he felt sure would seal 
Habakkuk’s lips. 

That same night Stringer crept into Thorbury Church 
stealthily, as if he were about to commit a guilty act, 
and screwed the little silver eyelet which held the silver 
chain of the old Bible into the oak of the lectern. Then 
he locked the door again and stole away. 


THE BISHOPS’ BIBLE. 


897 


Next day, on coming down to breakfast, be found a 
little note on the table informing him that a special ser- 
vice would be held that morning at eleven o’clock, and 
inviting his presence. He read the notice with trepi- 
dation, and went to the church with Mary in a dread 
lest his secret was known. 

His secret was known. The special service was held 
by the Rector as a thanksgiving for the restoration of 
the Holy Book to Thorbury Church, and for the end- 
ing of the dissensions which had made the parish 
unhappy. 

And when ar the finish of the service, everybody 
pressed around Stringer, and thanked him, and con- 
gratulated him, he felt rather glad that the parish knew 
that he had done what little he could to retrieve his 
fault. 

Yet as he lay abed on many a quiet night, in the 
midst of his contentment, the words rang in his ears : 
“ I can’t buy his sight back agin ! ” 


898 


THE BISHOPS ’ BIBLE. 


L’ENVOL 

Springtime come again, with its sprouting grass, its 
budding leaves, and its early flowers — beautiful, balmy 
spring. 

Thorbury Church is decorated as though for a festi- 
val, and filled by a glad congregation, for at the altar- 
rails kneel Frank Boyer and Ophelia, whose hands the 
Rector joins in holy matrimony. 

The bells chime in merry peal, and gladness reigns in 
the secluded Midland village, which but a short time 
ago was torn by such dissensions. 


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STR 


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PERFUMES 


To secure the most delicate and refined perfume from the rose, 
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